THE 


AUTUMN    SHEAF: 


A  COLLECTION  OF 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

BY 

DANIEL    RICKETSON. 


NEW    BEDFORD: 
PUBLISHED    BY   THE   AUTHOB, 

1869. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by 

DANIEL  RICKETSON, 

in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
District  of  Massachusetts. 


E.  ANTHONY  &  SONS,  Printers,  New  Bedford. 


DEDICATION. 

WHOSO  delights  in  quiet  paths  to  stray, 
To  whom  the  Muses  lend  their  kindly  aid  ; 
Who  shuns  the  glare  of  Ostentation's  sway, 

"Within  whose  court  a  worship  base  is  paid ; 

Whose  soul  by  Nature's  gentler  voice  is  stayed : 
To  ffioo&iny  Muse  would  dedicate  her  strains, 

Unmarked  by  classic  lore  or  guileful  art, 
The  simple  music  of  the  hills  and  plains,  — 

And  thus  give  pleasure  to  some  kindred  heart, 

That  seeks  to  draw  from  life  its  better  part. 


P191889 


THE    AUTUMN    SHEAF. 

NOW  in  the  waning  years  of  life, 
Since  Autumn  crowns  my  lengthened  days, 
Apart  from  scenes  of  worldly  strife, 

And  seeking  light  from  Wisdom's  ways, 
I  've  gathered  up  from  far  and  near 
The  records  of  my  joy  and  grief, 
And  with  a  mingled  hope  and  fear, 

Have  bound  them  in  an  AUTUMN  SHEAF. 

D.  E. 

Brooklawn,  near  New  Bedford, 

April  1,  18G9. 


CONTENTS. 

FIRST    SERIES.     183C-1856. 

Page 

Proem 12 

Hopes  of  Youth 13 

Simple  Pleasures 15 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry 16 

Evening  Revery 18 

The  Good  Time 20 

The  Old  Library 21 

The  Fallen  Wood 23 

Kitchen  Musings 26 

Sonnet  —  Charles  Lamb 28 

My  Old  Plaid  Cloak 29 

My  Old  Plaid  Cloak.     Part  n 32 

A  Winter  Sketch 35 

My  Mother's  Grave 37 

The  Blind  Minstrel 40 

May 42 

The  Priest  of  Nature 44 

Dighton  Rock 48 

The  Old  Meeting-House 51 

Charity 53 

The  Voice  of  Nature 54 

The  Pilgrim  Voyage 56 

The  Death  of  Jacob 58 

Carlo 60 

The  Old  Spinning-Wheel 61 

The  Aged  Man 63 

I 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Page 

To  Caurus G5 

Our  Harbor 66 

Mount  Auburn 68 

To  **** TO 

The  Old  Trammel 71 

The  Old  Spanish  Bell 74 

Daily  Troubles 76 

Farewell  to  H.  W.  L 78 

Simplicity 79 

Autumn  Days 83 

The  Gothic  Tower - 87 

Simplicity 89 

The  Loss  of  the  Lexington 90 

The  Poet  Southey 92 

The  Night  Wind 94 

True  Heroism 9G 

The  Father's  Lament.     .    , 98 

Daybreak 99 

The  Poet's  Wealth 100 

Seaside 101 

Wild  Flowers 102 

Insect  Harmony 10$ 

Old  Joy 104 

The  Stricken  Deer 105 

The  Poetaster 106 

The  Last  of  the  Wampanoags 107 

Haughtiness 108 

Winter  Thoughts 109 

Lines  to  S.  S Ill 

The  Maiden's  Lament 112 

The  Anemone.     To  E.  S.  A 114 

William  Lloyd  Garrison 115 

True  Greatness  —  Thomas  Clarkson 119 

Sonnet— Thomas  Clarksou 121 


CONTENTS.  VII 

Page 

Sonnet  to  M.  W.  C 122 

Lines  to  Transatlantic  Friends 123 

Impromptu 125 

Ho  !  Help  ! 126 

The  Field 128 

The  Little  Big  Man 130 

The  Thunder-Storm 132 

A  Wish 133 

Another 133 

Farewell  to  Woodlee 134 

Be  Honest,  Boys 136 

Sincerity 138 

Woodlee  Lawn 139 

My  Little  Nun 140 

The  Rain 141 

Sir  W.  and  Lady  Scott 143 

The  Day  of  Rest 144 

Autumn  Twilight 145 

The  Gentle  Voice  and  Quiet  Eye 147 

Spring's  Welcome 149 

SECOND    SERIES.    1856-1869. 

Proem 152 

Solitude 153 

Forty  Years  Ago 155 

Winter  Evening 157 

Fall 158 

October's  Close 159 

The  Chickadee ' 160 

The  Old  Fountain 162 

To  R.  W.  E. 164 

To  the  Same 165 

A  Vernal  Ode.     To  W.  E.  C.   .  .  166 


VIII  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Summer's  Close 167 

A  Word  of  Cheer 169 

Old  Charley 172 

A  Sunset  Revery 174 

The  Saxon  Heart 177 

Autumn 179 

Working  at  the  Mill 181 

The  Riven  Oak  —  John  Brown 183 

The  Petition  —  John  Brown 184 

Dawn  —  John  Brown 185 

The  Fatal  Friday 187 

—  To  the  President 188 

Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli 189 

The  Lost  Mate 191 

The  Fallow  Fields 193 

To  W.  C.  B 196 

The  Improvised  Dance 198 

Walden 199 

A  Winter  Song 202 

The  King  of  Tarkiln  Hill 206 

In  Memoriam.     H.  D.  T 209 

The  Old  Mill-Dam 212 

The  Morrow 216 

Spring  is  Coming 217 

Emma 219 

Noontime 221 

Cheer 223 

The  Lapse  of  Time 224 

Happy  Mediocrity 225 

The  Right  Place 228 

A  Sea  Picture 230 

The  Struggle 231 

God's  Goodness 232 

My  Quest 233 


CONTENTS.  IX 

Page 

New  York 234 

The  New  York  Dustman's  Bells 235 

Old  England 237 

In  Memoriam.     G.  G.  C 241 

In  Memoriam.     A.  T.  T 245 

The  Old  Barn 246 

The  Mother's  Voice 251 

In  Kemembrauce 252 

To  the  Same 253 

The  Winter  Evening 255 

A  Rural  Sketch 262 

The  Old  Homestead 265 

A  Portrait. 273 

The  Old  Friends'  Meeting-House 275 

The  Shanty 281 

Our  Village 282 

Memories 287 

The  Deserted  Farm-House 288 

The  Ministry  of  Nature 291 

Whittier  and  Longfellow 293 

A  Hundred  Years  Ago 294 

To  William  Barnes 296 

Aspirations 298 


ERRATA. 


Page  284,  line  15,  for  arm,  read  smith. 

Page  284,  line  21,  for  Stands  one,  read  He  stands* 


FIRST    SERIES 


1836  — 1836. 


PROEM. 

COULD  I  portray  in  fair  and  easy  verse 
The  features  of  my  own  New  England  home, 
The  phases  of  her  seasons,  what  I  've  seen 
And  felt  within  her*pleasant  haunts 
-Of  wood  and  field,  by  stream  or  lake, 
In  lonely  places,  and  the  valued  truths 
I  oft  have  found  arise  therefrom,  then  I 
Might  hope  to  leave  a  record  that  would  cheer 
Others  more  youthful  in  life's  pilgrimage. 
Such  seems,  howe'er,  to  be  the  lot  of  man. 
That  revelations  made  to  one  rarely 
Can  be  conveyed  to  others  ;  each  himself 
Must  find  the  treasure  Nature  offers  all ; 
Still  I  shall  venture  to  attempt  the  task, 
And  from  the  storehouse  of  my  musing  hours. 
Though  all  unequal  to  my  heart's  desire 
Bring  forth  its  humble  wares  as  best  I  may, 
In  the  fond  hope  thereby  to  contribute 
A  modest  portion  to  the  common  weal, 
And  thus  not  useless  prove  my  walk  in  life. 

18GO. 


HOPES    OF    YOUTH. 

O  SHOULD  my  life  be  spared  to  age, 
Though  age  bring  with  it  pain, 
May  scenes  that  now  my  youth  engage, 
Still  with  me  then  remain. 

May  still  the  landscape  smile  for  me, 

That  smiles  on  all  around  ; 
And  seated  'neath  some  favorite  tree, 

As  now,  be  often  found, — 

Whose  spreading  branches  overhead, 

A  canopy  shall  lend  ; 
And  may  I  feel,  though  }7outh  hath  sped, 

Joy  with  my  sorrow  blend. 

And  though  my  limbs  should  need  the  aid 

Of  kindly  arm,  or  staff, 
Still  may  I  seek  the  woodland  shade, 

The  crystal  streamlet  quaff,  — 


14  HOPES    OF   YOUTH. 

There  in  the  glass  of  memory  dwell 

Upon  the  varied  past ; 
And  if  a  sigh  my  heart  should  swell, 

Still  may  the  vision  last. 

May  still  the  sight  of  cheerful  youth 
My  heart's  blood  stir  with  glee, 

And  still  the  force  of  simple  truth 
Its  blessings  bring  to  me. 

May  sweet  religion  lend  her  aid 
To  cheer  life's  waning  hour, 

And  on  the  "Rock  of  ages"  stayed, 
May  I  then  feel  its  power,  — 

Its  power  to  smooth  the  brow  of  care, 
And  cheer  the  pilgrim's  wa}^, 

To  light  up  all  the  cells  of  thought, 
As  in  youth's  blithesome  day. 

1839/ 


SIMPLE    PLEASURES.  15 


SIMPLE    PLEASURES. 

T  in  the  decorated  halls  of  wealth, 
Where  flows  the  goblet  round  the  groaning  board, 
While  the  old  walls  re-echo  to  the  mirth 
That  maddened  senses  rudely  vaunt  aloud, 
Is  pleasure,  such  as  cheers  the  heart's  blood,  found  ; 
But  in  the  calmer  scenes  of  Nature's  court, 
In  woodland  shades,  beside  the  murmuring  rill 
Or  tumbling  waterfall,  or  meadows  gay, 
Where,  undisturbed  by  aught  that  man  defiles, 
The  works  of  God  speak  forth  his  majesty. 
Here  the  rapt  soul  can  soar  to  other  realms, 
And  bathe  in  light  from  His  eternal  throne, 
Who  in  His  works  demands  our  reverent  love. 


16  THE    SPIRIT    OF    POETRY. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    POETRY. 

OTHOU  blest  influence,  mighty,  undefined! 
Yet  everywhere  abroad  through  the  wide  earth, 
And  filling  all  with  thy  unceasing  charm : 
Thou  not  alone  dost  dwell  in  sombre  wood, 
Or  by  the  flowery  bank  of  crystal  stream, 
Or  waterfall,  or  roaring  cataract ; 
But  thou  dost  grace  the  lowly  cottage  roof, 
And  throwest  a  charm  around  the  cheerful  board  ; 
Thou  hoverest  o'er  the  village  church-yard's  calm. 
And  seemest  to  mourn  o'er  virtue  early  lost, 
And  e'er  to  innocence  thou  lendest  thy  smile  ; 
Thou  fillest  with  hope  the  wanderer's  lonely  way, 
When  thoughts  of  home  come  o'er  his  sorrowing  soul, 
And  his  roused  pulses  leap  to  take  him  there. 
There  is  no  voice  in  Nature's  wide  domain. 
But  thou,  sweet  Spirit,  dost  it  aye  pervade, 
E'en  to  the  lowliest  insect's  gentle  hum  ; 
And  thou  art  mighty,  when  around  the  throne 
Of  God's  omnipotence  sublime,  employed  ! 
With  what  a  beauty  to  the  soul  then  comes 
The  word  of  peace,  with  inspiration  filled ! 


THE    SPIRIT    OF   POETRY.  17 

Then  the  sweet  Psalmist's,  and  the  Prophet's  voice 

Have  a  far  greater  and  more  winning  force. 

True  piety  is  ever  filled  with  thee, 

And  all  that  once  in  chilling  garb  appeared, 

Now  warms  the  soul  with  aspirations  deep. 

Without  thee,  this  fair  world  were  but  a  blank, 

A  cold,  unwished-for  resting  place  :  — 

Yes  !  thou  dost  come  from  His  all-forming  hand 

Who  framed  the  vast  universe  ;  and  who  gave 

Thy  potent  sway  to  beautify  his  works. 

And  then,  O  thoughtful  man  !  wilt  thou  be  dull 

To  the  rich  influence  of  fair  Nature's  claim, 

Or  to  her  voice  that  now  within  thee  calls, 

Prompting  thy  soul  to  soar  above  this  earth, 

And  fix  her  pinions  in  the  realms  of  grace? 

O,  rather  listen  to  "  the  still,  small  voice,'* 

And  listening  obey,  for  it  is  Truth  to  thee. 

1837. 


18  EVENING  EEVEET, 


EVENING    REVEKY. 

BE  with  me,  Muse  !  my  ever  constant  friend, 
Whose  influence  sweet  can  soothe  my  loneliest 

hour, 

And  as  to  thee  with  reverence  I  bend, 
Still  on  my  head  thy  genial  spirit  pour. 

And  now,  as  silently  the  guards  of  night, 

The  fresh-lipped  moon,  and  all  her  bright  amiyr 

In  softened  smiles  send  forth  their  mellow  light, 
O,  trace  with  me,  my  Muse,  our  cherished  way. 

For  thou  in  childhood  on  my  infant  breast, 
Ere  Reason  had  assumed  her  tyrant  sway, 

Thy  potent  charms  hadst  lastingly  impressed, 
And  lit  my  path  with  thy  enkindling  ray. 

Then,  led  by  thee,  fair  Nature's  haunts  I  soughtr 

At  early  morn,  at  noon,  and  dewy  eve, 
And  felt  what  ne'er  philosophy  had  taught  — 

The  glowing  raptures  thou  for  me  didst  weave. 


EVENING   REVERT.  19 

How  fresh,  and  fair,  each  rural  thicket  gleamed  ! 

Where  mingled  notes  at  early  morning  broke, 
Ere  yet  day's  orb  aslant  the  hill-top  beamed, 

Or  weary  rustics  from  their  dreams  awoke. 

And  thou  bright  moon,  that  watched  o'er  all  below, 
How  grateful  would  my  heart  to  thee  ascend  ! 

When  pensively  reclined  beneath  yon  brow, 
Where  oft  to  meet  thee  I  my  steps  would  bend. 

There  I  would  love  to  trace  the  mystic  band, 

That  walk  Heaven's  arch  when  thou  remountest  thy 
car, 

In  grand  obeisance  to  the  all-guiding  Hand, 
Seen  here,  around,  and  in  yon  vault  afar. 

And  shall  time  snatch  aught  of  my  youthful  taste  ? 

Shall  the  rude  world  this  heart  congeal,  or  chill? 
Rather  this  form  should  crumble  into  waste, 

Than  simple  Truth  its  spirit  cease  to  fill. 

And  thou  my  Muse,  still  lend  thy  welcome  aid, 

To  smooth  the  cares  of  life  that  time  must  bring  ; 
And  when  upon  death's  lowly  bed  I  'm  laid, 

*ujt__f 

Be  with  theplas  in  life's  earliest  spring. 

1838. 


20  THE    GOOD   TIME. 


THE    GOOD    TIME. 

WHEN  nations  wise  shall  learn  to  war  no  morer 
And  man  o'er  man  release  his  tyrant  power,. 
And  the  fair  earth  in  radiant  beauty  shine, 
As  was  intended  by  the  Hand  divine  ; 
When  man  in  native  strength  shall  go  forth  free, 
And  the  loud  chorus  sound  from  sea  to  sea, 
The  glorious  anthem  of  his  liberty ; 
Then  shall  the  mountains  skip  like  agile  rams, 
And  every  hill  rejoice  like  playful  lambs  ; 
At  morning's  dawn  the  music  shall  awake, 
Nor  shall  the  evening  shades  its  freshness  break. 
0,  happy  day,  and  happy  they  who  dwell 
Upon  the  earth  when  such  glad  tidings  swell ! 
As  sang  the  Prophet  in  the  days  of  old, 
Whose  words  still  ring  throughout  the  world  like  gold,. 
The  sword  to  ploughshares  then  shall  moulded  be, 
And  every  one  sit  'neath  his  vine  and  tree. 
No  cruel  master  shall  the  weak  upbraid, 
None  shall  molest  him,  none  shall  make  afraid, 
For  thus  the  Lord  hath  in  his  wisdom  spoken, 
And  on  mankind  bequeathed  the  sacred  token. 


THE    OLD    LIBRARY.  21 


THE    OLD    LIBRARY. 

AMID  your  classic  shades,  old  favorite  haunt, 
Again  as  erst  with  reverent  steps  I  roam, 
While  o'er  my  mind,  like  some  sweet  spirit  chant ^ 
From  heavenly  spheres  your  kindly  voices  come. 

Here  in  my  boyhood's  meditative  hours, 
With  truant  steps  alone  I  ofttimes  strayed  ; 

And  loved  to  court  the  ever-witching  powers 

That  round  your  hallowed  seat  supremely  played. 

Old  friends,  I  hail  ye  !  so  unlike  the  chill 
Of  the  world's  selfishness  and  unconcern, 

Your  potent  charms  the  soul  with  rapture  fill, 
And  move  its  depths  with  love  of  truth  to  burn. 

How  oft  beneath  your  genial  grace  I  pored 
With  welcome  toil  o'er  some  inspired  page  ! 

While  my  young  heart  with  strange  emotions  soared, 
And  swelled  its  bounds  with  philosophic  rage. 

Not  all  a  dream  was  that,  my  boyish  gaze, 

For  though  no  tutored  hand  my  course  did  guide, 

B2 


22  THE    OLD    LIBRARY. 

Much  I  obtained  amid  the  lettered  maze, 
That  still  I  keep  with  reverential  pride. 

Here  first  I  learned  with  cherished  love  to  burn 
O'er  mighty  Milton's  soul-exalting  page  ; 

And  now  with  fervor  which  doth  oft  return, 
I  love  to  dwell  on  the  great  poet-sage. 

And  thou  dear  bard,  old  England's  honest  pride, 
With  what  delight  thy  beauties  to  me  came  ! 

Thou  who  my  early  footsteps  oft  did'st  guide  : 
M}r  heart  still  leaps  at  Cowper's  hallowed  name. 

Here  too  I  loved  with  pensive  Gray  to  muse, 
While  to  his  solemn  strains  my  pulses  beat ; 

Or  Goldsmith's  sweet  inspiring  page  peruse, 
And  with  him  'mid  the  towering  Alps  retreat. 

And  other  bards  that  to  my  soul  are  dear, 

Here  first  I  learned  their  magic  sway  to  prize, 

Around  whose  names  the  glories  sparkle  clear, 
Whose  praise  has  risen  to  the  far-stretched  skies. 

And  I  would  not  forget  those  youthful  days, 
For  they  like  sunshine  o'er  my  spirit  spread, 

And  lead  me  still  through  many  pleasant  ways, 
Though  boyhood's  hours  for  me  long  since  have  fled. 
1836. 


THE   FALLEN  WOOD.  23 


THE    FALLEN    WOOD. 

YE  brave  old  woods,  farewell !  who  have  so  long, 
Spread  your  huge  branches  to  the  wintry  wind, 
Or  waved  your  leafy  tops  'neath  summer's  breeze  ; 
Within  whose  still  retreats,  the  gentle  band 
Of  Nature's  choristers  has  nestled  oft, 
And  hatched  their  young,  and  sung  their  mellow  chants. 
Farewell !  the  woodman's  axe  hath  laid  ye  low, 
And  soon  upon  some  sturdy  yeoman's  hearth, 
Or  that  of  well-fed  citizen,  ye  '11  blaze. 
No  more  by  eager  fancy  borne  along, 
Far  from  the  cares  that  crowd  the  haunts  of  man, 
Shall  I  commune  within  your  quiet  walks, 
Which  seemed  so  hidden  from  the  glare  of  day, 
That  ages  might  have  passed  }^ou  undisturbed. 
But  the  all-grasping  hand  of  gain  hath  found  you, 
And  ye  have  fallen.     That  aged  raven, 
Sweeping  his  lonely  way  o'er  your  sad  ruins, 
In  vain  seeks  out  his  once  sequestered  nest, 
And  boding  omens  sad,  sends  forth  his  tale 
Of  sorrow.     Where  is  the  heart  that  cannot  feel 
A  pain  to  see  fair  Nature  thus  disrobed  ? 


24  THE    FALLEN   WOOD. 

So  it  was  not  meant  —  God  lends  the  leafy  grovey 
And  the  grand  influence  of  the  forest  wild, 
To  calm  our  worldly  nature,  and  to  tranquilize 
The  troubled  waters  of  the  harassed  soul. 
But  man,  not  heeding  Nature's  kindly  boon, 
Blots  her  fair  face,  and  treats  her  oft  with  scorn. 
The  pleasant  Spring  has  come,  and  o'er  your  haunts 
Casts  its  broad  smile.     An  effort  yet  for  life 
You  make,  and  from  your  sad  and  mutilated  stumps, 
Shoots  forth  the  juicy  twig.     But  years  must  pass, 
The  yet  unwrinkled  brow  must  droop  with  age, 
Those  limbs,  now  strong  and  in1  the  flush  of  youth, 
Must  shrink  and  weaken  neath  the  hand  of  time, 
Or  moulder  in  the  cold  damp  vault  of  earth, 
Ere  ye  shall  rear  your  lordly  heads  again. 
Methinks  yon  warbler  by  his  saddened  note 
Laments  your  fate,  and  in  his  soft  complaint 
Would  call  unfeeling  man  to  his  hard  lot. 
Man  is  a  destroyer !  before  whose  might 
The  lofty  forests  fall —  earth,  sky,  and  water, 
All  must  yield  to  him  —  for  so  the  word  is  written. 
u  Deep  calleth  unto  deep,"  and  oft  within 
The  far  recesses  of  the  solemn  wood, 
A  voice  like  that  which  at  Creation's  birth 
Spread  o'er  the  forming  world,  may  then  be  heard  ; 


THE    FALLEN   WOOD.  25 

And  to  the  soul  so  clear,  so  deep,  it  comes, 

That  man  might  deem  the  great  Jehovah  spake, 

Prompting  his  wayward  thoughts  to  look  above, 

And  lost  in  wonder,  worship  and  adore. 

Then  let  the  groves  remain  !  sacred  to  thought, 

To  purity,  to  health,  and  sweet  devotion  ; 

Where  rural  worshipper  may  steal  away, 

Far  from  the  jarring  world  where  Mammon  reigns, 

That  world  which  oft  has  caused  his  heart  to  mourn, 

And  droop  with  sadness  ;  here  let  him  come, 

And  pour  out  the  full  tide  of  his  feelings 

In  free  communion  with  the  God  of  all. 

Here  in  her  beauty  let  the  maiden  come, 

Blushing  to  hear  the  low  repeated  vows 

Of  him  for  whom  she  lives.     What  fitter  place 

For  pure,  congenial  hearts  to  sympathize? 

The  man  of  sorrow  too  may  linger  here, 

And  in  the  solemn  stillness  of  these  scenes, 

Find  a  sure  balm  to  heal  his  wounded  heart, 

And  bid  him  think  that  life  may  yet  be  blessed. 

Spare  then  the  grand  old  woods,  the  pleasant  groves, 

And  delve  the  earth,  —  there  borrow  from  the  mine 

The  sulphurous  lump  to  cheer  the  winter  hearth. 

1839. 


26  KITCHEN    MUSINGS. 


KITCHEN    MUSINGS. 

I  LOVE  by  the  warm  kitchen  wood-fire  to  ponder, 
While  thick-coming  fancies  envelop  my  mind, 
And  the  old  chimney  rumbles  like  far  distant  thunder, 
A  trumpet  alarm  of  the  god  of  the  wind. 

The  casements  all  rattle,  and  threaten  to  tumble  ; 

They  've  told  the  same  tale  these  odd  fifty  years  : 
I  heed  it  no  more  than  old  Boreas'  grumble  ; 

To  the  chicken-heart  only  it  brings  any  fears. 

Let  all  those  who  wish,  sit  ensconced  in  the  parlor ; 

In  vain  they  attempt  their  gloom  to  deceive  : 
I  rather  would  hum  some  old  song  of  Kit  Marlow 

By  the  warm  kitchen  wood-fire  on  a  cold  winter's  eve. 

O,  the  old  kitchen  hearth,  the  charm  of  my  childhood  ! 

With  fondness  I  hold  to  its  generous  heat : 
It  tells  me  of  tales  in  the  night-shrouded  wild  wood, 

And  youthful  emotions  my  fancy  still  greet,  — 

When  entranced  I  sat  by  the  warm  glowing  embers, 
And  listened  with  tears  to  some  heart-touching  tale, 


KITCHEN    MUSINGS.  27 

Which  with  fond  cherished  love  my  heart  still  remem 
bers, 
For  innocence  then  did  o'er  it  prevail. 

The  simplest  of  pleasures  are  surely  the  sweetest, 
And  those  which  will  bring  the  best  good  to  the  mind, 

And  though  we  deplore  they  so  often  prove  fleetest, 
We  still  look  with  fond  hope  to  those  left  behind. 

1838. 


28  SONNET CHARLES   LAMB. 


SONNET— CHABLES  LAMB. 

TTQW  gloriously  around  thy  cherished  name, 
-*--*-     The  gentle  graces  of  thy  soul  are  wreathed ! 
Each  passing  thought,  or  word  but  by  thee  breathed, 
Is  now  recorded  with  thy  lustrous  fame. 
O  !  happy  they  who  had  thee  for  a  friend, 
With  whom  thou  fondly  didst  thy  humor  share, 
And  who  as  with  one  voice  thy  worth  declare, 
And  aye  with  sorrow  o'er  thy  ashes  Taend  ; 
For  thou  possessed'st  a  spirit,  rich  and  rare, 
Which  lasted  to  the  evening  of  thy  days, 
As  sunlight  round  some  sparkling  fountain  plays  ; 
And  what  of  all  most  genial  can  combine, 
This,  gentle  "  Elia,"  was  truly  thine. 

1838. 


MY   OLD   PLAID    CLOAK.  29 


MY    OLD    PLAID    CLOAK. 

MY  old  plaid  cloak  !  my  old  plaid  cloak  ! 
How  many  storms  we  've  borne  together  ! 
And  now  though  old,  and  faded  too, 

Thou  still  canst  shield  me  from  the  weather. 

And  here  thou  art,  old  Tartan  friend  ! 

Again  brought  out  to  face  the  blast, 
And  ward  me  from  rude  Boreas'  cold, 

Faithful  in  duty  to  the  last. 

Yes !  I  have  wrapped  thee  round  my  breast, 
And  borne  the  brunt  of  many  a  storm  ; 

And  well  hast  thou  withstood  the  test, 
But  now  art  worn,  and  quaint  in  form  ; 

Yet  I  '11  not  cast  thee  off,  old  friend, 
Dimmed  as  thou  art,  and  beauty  gone  ; 

But  every  rent  in  thee  will  mend, 

Though  thou  shouldst  cause  the  proud  to  scorn. 

With  thee  my  woodland  walks  I  trace, 
When  mantling  snow  is  falling  fast, 


30  MY    OLD    PLAID    CLOAK. 

And  safe  within  thy  warm  embrace, 

Fear  naught  from  stern  old  Winter's  blast. 

Old  Scottish  plaid  !  thou  bring'st  to  mind 
The  thought  of  days  long  past  and  gone, 

Of  happy  hours,  and  friendship  kind, 
In  memory  blest,  though  erewhile  flown. 

Yet  thou  art  here,  my  well-tried  friend, 
Who  half  a  score  of  years  hast  seen, 

And  wilt  thy  share  of  comfort  lend, 
Though  thou  art  not  what  thou  hast  been,  - 

A  bonnie  plaid,  of  fairest  hue, 

That  well  might  win  the  fair  one's  smile, 

Of  Lincoln  green,  and  Highland  blue, 
With  purest  white  inmixed  the  while. 

As  on  thy  time-worn  form  I  muse, 
My  mind  is  turned  to  Scotia's  land, 

When  Wallace  brave,  and  gallant  Bruce, 
In  times  of  fear  maintained  command  ; 

And  fireside  joys  are  brought  to  mind, 
With  Bonnie  Doon,  and  Auld  Lang  Syne, 


MY   OLD    PLAID    CLOAK.  31 

And  Highland  lads,  in  bran-new  plaids, 
Appear  around  thy  hoary  shrine. 

Let  who  will  call  it  weak  in  me, 

And  smile  at  this  my  humble  song, 
Which  thus  records  the  worth  of  thee, 

Who  hast  been  true  to  me  so  long,  — 

I  cannot  scorn  thee,  honest  plaid  ! 

If  thou  art  old,  and  faded  too  ; 
For  well  thou  hast  my  friendship  paid, 

Nor  shall  my  muse  refuse  thy  due. 

1836. 


32 


MY   OLD    PLAID    CLOAK. 


MY    OLD    PLAID    CLOAK. 

PART    II. 

A    GAIN  old  Winter  blusters  round, 
-^V     With  angry  threats,  and  gusts  full  sour 
While  chained  with  frost  fast  lies  the  ground, 

And  overhead  rude  tempests  lower. 

Now  from  thy  hiding  place,  old  plaid  ! 

Again  come  forth  as  thou  arf  wont ; 
The  sight  of  thee  still  makesjne  glad  ; 

With  thee  I  '11  dare  stern  Winter's  front. 

In  song  I've  called  thee  my  old  friend ; 

Such  thou  hast  ever  proved  to  4)e  ; 
And  as  through  life  my  steps  I  wend, 

I  '11  strive  to  learn  some  truth  of  thee. 

Since  last  I  sang  thy  honest  worth, 

Two  years  have  rolled  o'er  sea  and  main, 

Thousands  of  forms  have  sprung  in  birth, 
To  taste  this  life  of  joy  and  pain. 


MY    OLD    PLAID    CLOAK.  33 

How  many  in  that  rapid  space, 

Have  o'er  time's  sweeping  current  sighed  ; 
How  many  run  their  final  race, 

Bowed  to  the  earth,  and  groaning,  died. 

But  thou,  old  friend  !  remainest  still 

Amid  earth's  hurrying  change  and  waste, 

And  I  by  His  all  bounteous  will 

Who  rules  the  world,  yet  onward  haste. 

Still  I  can  on  thy  merits  muse, 

And  fill  my  mind  with  fancies  sweet, 

Still  wrapped  in  thee  some  bard  peruse, 
And  churlish  Winter's  raging  greet. 

But  yet  at  times*!  mourn  thy  lot, 
That  thou  to  this  drear  Yankee  land, 

Away  from  thy  dear  native  spot, 

Hast  come,  as  by  some  magic  wand. 

Better  't  would  seem  that  thou  hadst  clad 

Some  hard}?-  son  of  Scotia's  hills, 
Who  'd  boasted  thee  his  bonnie  plaid, 

And  scorned  the  force  of  Highland  chills,  — 

With  him  have  clomb  the  rugged  height 
Of  far-famed  Grampian's  snow-clad  peak, 


34  MY    OLD    PLAID    CKOAK. 

Or  wandered  by  the  pale  moon's  light, 
Loch  Katrine's  fairy-elf  to  seek. 

But  whist !  thy  fate  I'll  not  deplore, 
Far  happier  hast  thou  been  with  me  : 

With  thee  I  yet  may  tread  that  shore, 
And  all  its  wealth  of  beauty  see. 

Now  rest  awhile,  my  own  goose-quill, 
And  thou,  old  plaid,  still  lend  thy  cheer, 

Still  keep  obedient  to  my  will, 

Till  Spring-time  glads  the  circling  year. 

1838. 


A   WINTER   SKETCH.  35 


A    WINTER    SKETCH. 

"T"TTHEN  Winter's  horn  blows  loud  and  clear, 
f  T        And  snow  drifts  down  the  silent  glen, 

When  slowly  goes  the  waning  year, 
And  few  of  Nature's  smiles  are  seen, 

Then  to  the  woods  I  often  go, 

Heedless  alike  of  wind  or  snow. 

'T  is  not  when  naught  but  smiles  are  seen, 
And  fields  are  gay  with  new-blown  flowers, 

When  the  old  woods  are  robed  in  green, 
That  Nature  shows  her  greatest  powers  ; 

But  when  her  hidden  forces  rise, 

And  clouds  and  storms  deform  the  skies. 

For  then  more  boldly  rush  the  streams, 

The  waterfall  more  loudly  roars, 
And  to  the  gale  the  raven  screams, 

As  o'er  the  lofty  pines  he  soars. 
And  the  riven  branches  loudly  crack, 
While  echo  sends  the  tumult  back. 

'T  is  then  the  mighty  sea  is  tossed, 

And  the  frail  bark  to  the  tempest  stoops, 


36  A   WINTER    SKETCH. 

When  billows  lash  the  rock-girt  coast, 

Where  the  gray  sea-gull  slowly  swoops  ; 
And  on  the  wind  is  often  heard 
The  voice  of  some  storm-driven  bird. 

Then  far  within  the  woods'  retreat, 
With  eager  steps  I  gladty  hie, 

Where  each  familiar  haunt  I  greet, 
As  old  friends  in  adversity. 

For  here  a  countless  store  I  find, 

That  on  me  shed  their  influence  kind. 

The  robin  flits  across  my  way, 

As  though  he  would  my  coming  hail, 

The  black-cap  hops  from  spray  to  spray, 
And  near  by  whirrs  the  startled  quail ; 

While  frisking  on  some  neighboring  bough, 

The  squirrel  eyes  me  as  I  go. 

The  green  moss  peeps  forth  from  the  snow, 
And  sweetly  smiles  at  Winter's  frown, 

While  with  their  load  the  maples  bow, 
And  humbly  wear  their  winter  crown. 

Such  rich  reward  kind  Nature  gives, 

To  him  who  in  her  quiet  lives. 

1838. 


MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE.  37 


MY  MOTHER'S   GRAVE. 

LONG  hath  thy  pure  spirit  dwelt  in  sweet  repose, 
My  childhood's  earliest,  most  endeared  friend  ; 
Yet  my  deep  love  for  thee  unceasing  flows, 
And  ever  will  till  time  with  me  shall  end. 

Strong  are  the  tiesjthat  bind  me  unto  thee, 

For  they  were  formed  at  true  affection's  shrine, 

When  my  young  heart  was  as  the  wild  breeze  free, 
And  fondly  leaned  its  trusting  hopes  on  thine. 

I  lost  thee  young,  in  boyhood's  heedless  hour, 
And  mourned  thee  as  a  sorrow-stricken  child, 

Who  hardly  knew  that  death  could  wield  his  power 
O'er  one  so  lovely,  cherished,  and  mild  : 

But  it  was  well,  for  thou  hadst  suffered  pain, 
Such  as  might  sunder  all  the  ties  of  earth, 

Though  never  were  thy  lips  moved  to  complain, 
Or  e'er  to  one  desponding  sigh  gave  birth. 

And  when  upon  thy  dying  bed  thou  lay'st, 
Thy  last  kind  look,  I  yet  distinctly  see  ; 


38  MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

Though  few  and  short  the  lingering  words  thou  said'  st, 
They  will  remain  as  seals  of  love  from  thee. 

Though  but  a  child,  my  loss  I  deeply  felt, 
For  to  thy  bosom  all  my  troubles  came  ; 

And  oft  as  by  thy  gentle  side  I  knelt, 
I  ever  found  thy  ardent  love  the  same. 

Yet  I  but  little  knew  how  great  the  change 
That  soon  must  o'er  my  future  welfare  come  ; 

That  I  away  should  then  be  led  to  range, 
Afar  from  all  the  tender  ties  of  home. 

How  often,  then,  while  musing  on  my  fate, 

In  some  sequestered  haunt,  or  woodland  shade, 

Communing  with  the  past,  alone  I  've  sat, 

And  thought  of  thee  beneath  the  cold  turf  laid. 

And  now,  though  manhood  with  its  cares  has  come, 
Those  youthful  days  I  gladly  cherish  still ; 

And  happy  hours  within  my  childhood's  home, 
My  yearning  heart  with  strong  emotions  fill. 

Thy  gentle  voice  as  wont  I  seem  to  hear, 
Thy  welcome  smile  again  I  seem  to  see, 


MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE.  39 

And  household  scenes  again  to  me  appear, 
Endeared  as  fond  remembrances  of  thee. 

But  far  from  trouble  thou  art  now  away, 

Within  those  realms  where  only  peace  is  found, 

Where  thou  behold'  st  the  light  of  that  blessed  day, 
From  God's  bright  throne  in  splendor  cast  around. 

1837. 


40  THE    BLIND    MINSTREL. 


THE  BLIND   MINSTKEL. 

FIRED  at  the  thought,  the  minstrel  struck  his  lyre, 
The  chords  resounded  to  his  trembling  hand, 
And  all  around  breathed  out  the  holy  fire, 
As  when  creation  woke  to  God's  command. 

Up  to  the  cross  he  turned  his  sightless  eyes  ; 

He  sung  of  Christ,  his  suffering,  and  death, 
In  tones  ascending  to  the  far-stretched  skies, 

And  borne  to  God  by  angels'  holy  breath. 

His  anxious  soul  had  caught  the  living  flame, 
And  fondly  strove  to  reach  its  destined  height, 

Where  it  might  dwell  with  Him  from  whom  it  came, 
Who  sits  enthroned  in  pure  ethereal  light. 

"  Vain  world  !  "  he  cried,  "  deceitful  thou  hast  proved  : 
When  I  was  young,  and  fortune  deigned  to  smile, 

Then  by  my  side  were  those  I  dearly  loved  ; 
Now  none  are  found,  my  sorrows  to  beguile. 

"  But  there  is  hope  —  my  Saviour  is  my  friend  ; 
To  him  I  turn,  when  sorrows  crowd  my  soul : 


THE    BLIND    MINSTREL.  41 

He  every  harm  will  from  my  path  defend,- 
And  gladly  make  my  broken  spirit  whole." 

And  as  beneath  the  aged  elm  he  leant, 

Of  childhood's  sports  so  oft  the  happ}^  scene, 

Its  waving  boughs  o'er  him  in  beauty  bent, 
And  kindly  shook  its  coronal  of  green. 

Years  had  elapsed  since  last  he  left  the  spot ; 

Long  had  he  been  a  wanderer  o'er  the  earth : 
And  now  with  pious  heart  he  sought  the  spot 

Where  the  blest  light  of  day  shone  on  his  birth. 

His  youthful  friends  within  the  ground  were  laid, 
And  now  a  stranger  in  his  boyhood's  home, 

Round  its  sweet  haunts  in  solitude  he  strayed, 

While  mingled  thoughts  o'er  his  worn  spirit  come. 

But  soon  in  yonder  churchyard  he  shall  lie, 
And  o'er  his  head  will  thrive  tne  senseless  sod ; 

Yet  though  the  tear  oft  fills  his  blighted  eye, 
He  has  one  friend  to  stay  —  that  friend,  his  God. 

1839. 


42  MAY. 


MAY. 

WHERE  is  the  lovely  month,  the  poets  sing, 
With     sweets     profuse,    and     crowned     with 

blushing  flowers, 

Which  rural  Thomson  ycleped  "  gentle  Spring"  ; 
The  time  when  lovers  sighed  within  green  bowers, 
And  poured  their  plaints  as  fell  the  pattering  showers? 
Long  have  they  vanished,  those  delightful  days  ; 

Gone,  gone  for  aye,  those  fond  remembered  hours. 
No  more  for  them  the  poet  tunes  his  lays, 
Nor  to  their  once  loved  court  his  rare  devotion  pays. 

Now  wrapped  in  furs  the  stripling  hastes  along, 
At  least  in  this  our  northern  Yankee  land  ; 

No  Strephon  here  with  Cloe  joins  his  song, 
While  Winter  lingers  with  his  chilling  hand : 
But  when  fair  Summer  wields  her  magic  wand, 

Then  lads  and  lassies  you  may  many  see, 

Wending  their  way  beneath  the  moonlight  flood, 

While  kindling  love  lights  up  the  youthful  eye, 

And  all  around  bespeaks  the  genial  flow  of  joy. 


MAY.  43 

No  groups  of  happy  children  now  are  seen, 
Tracing  the  fragrant  woodland  paths  along  ; 

Nor  by  the  brook  that  wells  through  meadows  green, 
Is  heard  the  laughter  of  the  happy  throng, 
Gathering  fair  flowers  the  scattered  leaves  among ; 

The  swelling  buds  not  yet  their  forms  disclose, 
Nor  yet  is  heard  the  Oriole's  welcome  song  ; 

All  nature  shrinks  beneath  the  Borean  cold, 

While  yet  storm-bearing  Hyenis  doth  his  sceptre  hold. 

Yet  soon  the  cheerful  sun  will  venture  forth, 
And  smile  on  all  the  varied  landscape  round  ; 

Then  nature's  charms  will  quickly  spring  in  birth, 
And  flowers  adorn  the  now  umnantled  ground, 
And  milder  skies  will  for  a  time  abound. 

But  though  storm-wrapt  our  northern  barriers  stand, 
Kind  heaven's  best  blessing  may  still  here  be  found  ; 

And  gladly  do  I  boast  my  native  land, 

And  patiently  will  wait  for  airs  and  skies  more  bland. 

1837. 


44  THE    PRIEST    OF    NATURE. 


THE  PKIEST  OF  NATUKE. 

HARD  by  an  old  wood's  still  retreat, 
Whose  bending  boughs  together  meetT 
An  Indian  sage  alone  doth  dwell, 
Within  a  rude  embowered  cell ; 
For  he  would  choose  to  live  alone, 
Since  all  his  early  friends  are  gone. 

Here  oft  I  come  upon  my  walk, 
To  hear  the  priest  of  nature  talk  ; 
For  though  he  knew  no  classic  shades, 
Philosophy  his  soul  pervades  ; 
And  every  rock  and  tree  around, 
To  him  with  mighty  truths  abound. 

Once  in  this,  land  his  race  was  strong ; 

His  fathers  here  did  flourish  long : 

But  now  with  population's  tide, 

They  long  since  vanished  from  his  side, 

And  he  of  all  is  left  alone, 

His  once  brave  people  to  bemoan. 


THE    PRIEST   OF   NATURE.  45 

"  Here,"  tearfully  he  oft  will  say, 
"  My  earliest  footsteps  learned  to  stray  ; 
And  often  by  this  streamlet  clear 
My  father's  bow  hath  shot  the  deer, 
While  heedless  from  the  verdant  brink 
He  stooped  his  antlered  head  to  drink. 

"  By  yon  old  upland's  shaggy  side 

Our  wigwam  rose  in  humble  pride, 

And  here  grew  up  my  sisters  fair, 

Tall,  comely  maids,  with  long  black  hair  ; 

But  they  afar  were  early  led, 

And  now  are  numbered  with  the  dead. 

' '  Yet  still  I  love  to  linger  here 
Throughout  the  seasons  of  the  year, 
And  every  haunt  I  love  to  praise, 
That  met  my  childhood's  eager  gaze  ; 
Though  often  sad  I  musing  stand, 
And  mourn  o'er  this  my  fathers'  land. 

"  Woe  be  to  that  inglorious  day 
That  swept  our  natal  rights  away,  • 
And  took  from  me  my  cherished  bride, 
Her  aged  father's  hope  and  pride, 

C2 


46  THE    PRIEST    OF   NATURE. 

And  rudely  snatched  my  sons  from  mey 
To  find  their  graves  within  the  sea ! 

"  And  I  will  in  this  quiet  stay  ; 
Here  I  my  aged  bones  will  lay : 
Perhaps  some  friendly  hand  may  place 
A  humble  stone  my  grave  to  trace, 
At  which  the  traveller,  passing  by, 
For  my  lone  fate  may  drop  a  sigh, 

"  And  haply  to  himself  may  say, 
'  Here  a  poor  Indian  lived  his  day/ 
And  sit  him  down  beside  the  spot, 
To  think  upon  the  red  man's  lot ; 
O  !  may  his  soul  then  rise  in  prayer, 
That  God  our  remnant  small  will  spare.' 

Such  was  the  old  man's  humble  tale, 
Told  me  within  the  secret  vale  ; 
But  higher  themes  he  oft  will  raise, 
And  all  his  soul  break  forth  in  praise, 
For  fully  to  his  simple  heart 
Kind  Nature  doth  her  power  impart. 

He  will  discourse  of  rocks,  and  trees, 
Of  birds,  and  flowers,  the  genial  breeze, 


THE    PRIEST    OF   NATURE.  47 

And  from  their  useful  lessons  prove 
The  present  grace  of  boundless  love  ; 
For  he  mid  Nature's  wilds  did  learn, 
Not  e'en  the  smallest  truth  to  spurn. 

For  him  her  mysteries  have  a  voice, 
Which  makes  his  old  heart  oft  rejoice, 
And  lessons  from  the  well  of  Truth, 
He  learned  to  prize  in  early  youth ; 
While  now,  with  naught  but  Nature's  fare, 
He  spends  his  lonely  life  in  prayer. 


1838. 


48  DIGHTON   ROCK. 


DIGHTON     ROCK. 

WHENCE  came  these  rude  inscriptions  ?  by  whose 
hand 

Was  this  old  legend  carved  upon  this  rock, 
Which  hath  so  long  withstood  the  shock  of  time  ? 
Did  some  bold  son  of  northern  Europe  here 
Attempt  to  trace  upon  its  time-worn  face 
A  lasting  record  of  his  dauntless  voyage? 
Was  it  his  mailed  hand  that  cut  these  mystic  forms, 
Long  ere  Columbus  landed  on  our  shore, 
Or  bold  Vespucius  ploughed  the  briny  deep  ? 
Did  some  descendant  of  old  Israel's  tribe, 
Who,  wandering  far,  had  crossed  dark  Behring's  strait, 
Rear  his  rude  cabin  here,  and  mark  the  spot, 
That  ages  hence  might  read  his  chronicle, 
And  know  his  sufferings  ?  visionary  thought ! 
Or  as  some  deem,  perhaps  with  reason,  too, 
That  the  swart  Indian  dwelling  near  these  shores 
In  his  rude  sculpture  wrought  his  simple  tale, 
And  in  uncouth  numbers  sang  the  pleasing  song 
Of  the  bold  hunt,  or  when  with  light  canoe 
He  skimmed  this  beauteous  river,  on  whose  sides 


DIGHTON   ROCK.  49 

The  lofty  forest  cast  its  cooling  shades  ; 

Or  of  some  murder  'neatk  the  white  man's  roof, 

From  whence  the  reeking  scalp  in  pride  he  brought,  — 

Sights  that  sent  gladness  to  his  savage  heart. 

Conjecture  has  been  rife,  and  seems  exhausted  ; 

But  now  a  pilgrim  to  this  ancient  haunt, 

I  '11  sit  me  down  amid  these  pleasant  fields, 

Beneath  the  branches  of  this  spreading  tree, 

And  muse  upon  the  scene.     The  ascending  sun 

Just  peeps  o'er  yonder  hill,  before  whose  beams 

The  light  mists  fly  ;  and  river's  bank, 

The  dripping  wood,  and  pebbly  shore, 

Glitter  beneath  his  cheerful  morning  glance. 

Anon  the  mist  o'erpowers  him,  and  again 

He  drives  them  off;  and  gathering  strength 

At  each  repeated  effort,  now  at  last 

Throws  his  broad  beams  on  all  the  landscape  round. 

The  cottages,  embosomed  in  green  vales, 

Peep  forth  as  if  to  taste  the  sweets  of  day ; 

Small  hamlets,  seated  on  the  distant  shore, 

Appear  in  rural  beauty,  whose  tall  spires 

Denote  that  God  is  there  remembered. 

The  brown-thrush,  perched  on  yonder  topmost  boughy 

Chants  clearly  forth  his  joyous  morning  hymn, 

And  gentle  murmurs  from  the  insect  race 


50  DIGHTON   HOCK. 

Speak  happiness  where  innocence  abides. 
And  must  I  leave  these  scenes  ?  must  I  again 
Go  forth  amid  the  busy  walks  of  men, 
Where -the  proud  worldling  vaunts  upon  his  stores,. 
And  mimic  statesmen  talk  their  hearers  deaf? 
Yes,  I  must  go.     Farewell !  old  legend  rock, 
Sweet  river's  bank  ;  and  thou,  old  boatman, 
Who  didst  lend  thy  strength  to  land  me  here, 
Farewell !  thy  honest  heart  would  wither  soon, 
Amid  the  sordid  ranks  of  human  strife  ; 
Still  keep  upon  thy  small,  though  hard-earned  farm> 
Nor  learn  the  wiles  that  fill  the  noisy  mart. 
Come,  now,  good  staff,  companion  of  my  way, 
Lend  thy  kind  aid,  and  I  will  journey  on. 

May,  1839. 


THE    OLD   MEETING-HOUSE.  51 


THE    OLD    MEETING-HOUSE. 

AY  !  there  it  stands,  a  melancholy  pile, 
A  rude  memorial  of  olden  days, 
Yet  here  the  cheering  sunbeams  sweetly  smile, 
And  the  old  roof  receives  their  parting  rays. 
'T  is  sad  to  think  of  those  who  gathered  there, 
And  humbly  knelt  before  their  God  in  prayer : 

For  scarcely  one  of  that  old  race  remains 
To  tell  the  tale  so  sad,  and  yet  so  dear, 

When  health  and  pleasure  filled  their  youthful  veins, 
As  fell  the  good  man's  words  upon  their  ear ; 

And  he  hath  gone  unto  the  blessed  land, 

To  join  in  praises  with  the  holy  band. 

But  memory  fondly  brings  his  worth  to  mind, 
And  loves  to  linger  round  the  honored  sage, 

For  he  was  crowned  with  gifts  we  rarely  find, 
And  well  could  teach  the  great  inspired  page. 

A  faithful  marble  tells  his  place  of  rest, 

And  the  tall  grass  waves  o'er  his  reverent  breast. 

And  that  old  graveyard,  with  its  tumbling  stones, 
That  stays  the  traveller  on  his  weary  way, 


THE    OLD   MEETING-HOUSE. 

Who  reads  the  lines  above  the  mouldering  bones, 

And  feels  't  is  good  in  these  lone  haunts  to  stay,  • 
If  any  place  could  rouse  the  soul  in  prayer, 
It  must  be  here,  where  worship  fills  the  air. 

And  there  is  one,  a  neat  and  lonely  grave, 
That  seems  to  throw  a  holy  calm  around : 

The  tale  is  short,  and  would  no  notice  crave ; 
"Almira,"  only,  marks  the  lowly  mound: 

Who  could  not  drop  a  tributary  tear, 

Where  fond  affection's  ties  are  seen  so  clear  ? 

If  thou  from  earthly  ills  thy  thoughts  wouldst  wean, 
And  teach  thy  soul  to  muse  on  holy  things, 

Come  here  when  twilight  steals  upon  the  scene, 
And  feel  thy  spirit  borne  on  seraph  wings ; 

For  such  repose  pervades  the  spot  around, 

That  thou  wouldst  seem  to  tread  on  holy  ground. 

No  jar  is  here,  with  which  the  earth  is  rife, 

No  pomp  of  pride  to  wound  thy  troubled  breast, 

Nor  vain  ambition,  jealous}T,  or  strife, 

Shall  reach  thee  in  this  place  of  peaceful  rest. 

Here  let  me  often,  from  the  world  away, 

Steal  a  calm  hour  to  muse  at  setting  day. 

1837. 


CHARITY.  53 


CHARITY. 

HAST  thou  a  heart  to  feel  another's  woe,  — 
To  lend  thy  hand  in  misery's  mournful  cause  ? 
Does  its  warm  blood  with  deep  emotions  flow, 
When  pity  calls,  nor  heed  the  world's  applause, 
Nor  at  its  scoffs,  or  smiles,  from  virtue  pause? 
If  so,  thou  much  of  bitter  sights  must  bear, 

When  suffering  nature  on  thy  kindness  draws. 
But  press  thou  on  !  thy  path  is  straight  and  clear  ; 
A  bounteous  grace  from  high  thy  course  will  ever  cheer. 

Thou  wilt  not  shun  the  poor  man's  lone  abode, 

Where  want  and  sickness  fill  his  days  with  grief ; 
But  guided  by  the  wisdom  of  thy  God, 

Thou  gladly  to  his  wants  wilt  bring  relief. 

O  CHARITY  !  of  human  good  the  chief, 
From  which  the  soul's  best  yearnings  doth  arise, 

Thou  to  the  woes  of  life  art  never  deaf, 
But  pure  and  reaching  as  the  ambient  skies  ! 
0  !  well  may  mortal  man  thy  high  endowments  prize. 

1836. 


54  THE    VOICE    OF   NATURE. 


THE    VOICE    OF    NATUKE. 

SWEET  voice  of  Nature  !  thou  dost  come 
With  healing  balm  unto  the  heart ; 
Thou  mak'st  us  feel  this  earth  our  home, 
And  linger  long  ere  we  would  part ;  — 
For  in  thy  still  retreats  we  see 
Naught  but  the  reign  of  harmony. 

Whene'er  we  listen  to  thy  voice, 
Or  muse  upon  thy  varied  charms, 

'T  is  then  in  life  we  should  rejoice, 
And  dwell  within  thy  open  arms,  — 

When  with  the  haunts  of  man  we  tire, 

And  feel  the  good  thou  canst  inspire. 

That  water-fall  which  wildly  leaps 

With  dashing  course  o'er  yonder  ridge  ; 

Those  ponderous  rocks  in  mighty  heaps, 
That  form  a  rude  and  fearful  bridge,  — 

All,  all  in  harmony  combine, 

And  tell  sweet  Nature,  they  are  thine. 

Yon  distant  bell,  that  sweetly  peals, 

Though  swept  by  Winter  rough  and  wild, 


THE    VOICE    OF   NATURE.  55 

Like  music  on  my  ear  now  steals, 

And  mellowed  seems  like  nature's  child ;  — 
Such  is  the  power  that  dwells  around, 
Where'er  thy  magic  voice  is  found. 

And,  too,  the  frost-bound,  leafless  trees, 
Like  giants  stripped  of  their  attire, 

Which  answer  to  the  sweeping  breeze, 
Like  ocean's  voice  or  rush  of  fire,  — 

All  speak  a  language  to  the  heart, 

That  thou,  O  God  !  dost  these  impart. 

O  Nature  !  with  what  fond  delight 

Thou  to  thy  votaries  dost  seem  ; 
Though  clothed  in  sombre  robes  of  night, 

Nor  lighted  by  the  moon's  fair  beam, 
Still  thou  hast  beauties  yet  in  store, 
For  him  who  would  thy  scenes  explore. 

Then  what  is  luxury,  or  wealth, 

Compared  with  this  that  thou  canst  give? 

A  grateful  heart  —  a  glow  to  health  — 
A  moral  lesson  how  to  live,  — 

These,  these  are  truths  that  will  inspire 

The  heart  that  can  thy  works  admire. 

1837. 


56  THE    PILGRIM    VOYAGE. 


THE    PILGEIM    VOYAGE. 

HIGH  rolled  the  Atlantic  waves  ;  the  fragile  bark 
That  bore  the  adventurous  band  of  steadfast 

4 

souls, 

Mid  ocean  tossed,  dashed  onward  to  the  coast, 
That  lay  as  yet  beyond  them  many  a  league. 
On,  on  they  sail,  day  after  day  succeeds, 
And  naught  but  faith  such  as  was  felt  of  old 
Upbears  their  weary  limbs,  to  toils  unused. 
Ah !  who  can  tell  what  grand  results  shall  come 
From  that  small  group  assembled  on  the  deck, 
Straining  their  eyes  to  catch  the  wished-for  land  ? 
There  stands  the  manly  form,  the  reverend  sage, 
The  graceful  matron,  and  the  beauteous  maid, 
Born  in  some  rural  spot  on  England's  shores, 
Who  oft  have  sported  on  the  village  green, 
And  slept  beneath  the  peaceful  cottage  roof — 
Home  of  their  fathers,  to  remembrance  dear. 
The-Sabbath  passes,  and  no  welcome  sound 
Of  church-bell  calls  them  to  the  house  of  God. 
Around  old  ocean  roars,  and  surging  high 
Threatens  to  engulf  their  strained  and  groaning  bark. 


THE    PILGEIM    VOYAGE.  57 

Loud  through  the  rigging  howls  the  driving  wind, 

The  bulwarks  tremble,  and  the  yards  creak  forth  ; 

But  from  that  cabin,  where  assembled  now 

These  followers  of  Christ,  ascends  a  voice, 

That  reaches  far  beyond  the  empyrean, 

Even  to  the  throne  of  Him  who  guides  their  way. 

Their  prayer  is  heard.     At  last  the  long-sought  shore 

Heaves  up  to  view,  clothed  in  its  wintry  robe  ; 

But  land  more  welcome  never  met  the  eye 

Of  voyager  wearied  of  old  ocean's  roar, 

For  there  they  see  a  shelter  from  the  storm 

That  from  the  shores  of  Europe  drove  them  hence  — 

A  safe  asylum  for  their  cherished  faith. 

1841. 


•58  THE    DEATH   OF   JACOB. 


THE    DEATH    OF    JACOB. 


noon  i11  Egypt,  and  the  scorching  sun 
Poured  down  his  sultiy  heat  on  Jacob's  tent  ;  — 
No  noise  disturbed  the  holy  calm  around, 
Save  when  at  times  the  buzzing  harvest-fly 
Spun  his  long  note,  or  far-off  bleat  of  flocks 
Came  slowly  stealing  through  the  burning  air. 
The  feeble  breeze  was  scarcely  heard  to  stir 
The  ancient  palm  that  stood  beside  the  door  ; 
And  the  sweet  flowers,  that  to  the  morning  smiled, 
Hung  down  their  heads  and  closed  their  drooping  leaves. 
The  flocks  and  shepherds  sought  a  refuge  safe, 
In  cool  retreats  among  the  mountain  groves. 
The  fallen  sheaves  lay  withering  in  the  sun, 
While  the  exhausted  reapers  slept  beneath 
The  spreading  branches  of  the  shady  trees. 
Within  the  tent  where  aged  Jacob  dwelt, 
Stood  Joseph,  and  near  by  two  youthful  forms, 
His  sons,  Ephraim  and  Manasseh,  who 
With  weeping  eyes  looked  at  the  dying  sage. 
Upon  a  lowly  couch  the  old  man  lay, 
His  long  white  beard  hanging  o'er  his  bosom, 


THE    DEATH   OF   JACOB.  59 

And  his  feeble  eye  turned  toward  heaven. 
Kaising  himself  upon  his  pilgrim-staff, 
He  lifted  up  his  voice  to  God,  and  asked 
Of  Heaven  a  blessing  for  the  youthful  swains. 
His  prayer  was  heard,  and  like  their  godly  sire, 
They  lived,  and  died,  in  service  of  the  Lord. 
The  sun  went  down  behind  the  distant  hills, 
And  his  bright  beams  had  scarcely  left  the  skies, 
When  good  old  Jacob  sank  upon  his  couch. 
He  died,  as  all  of  us  might  wish  to  die, 
With  a  firm  hope  and  confidential  trust. 

1837. 


60  CARLO. 


CARLO. 

HERE,  by  his  favorite  pond,  poor  Carlo  sleeps, 
No  more  to  sport  within  its  waters  bright, 
Nor  more  when  morning  o'er  the  horizon  peeps, 
Shall  his  glad  voice  proclaim  the  early  light. 

With  welcome  looks  no  more  will  run  to  greet 
His  master,  seeking  welcome  in  his  eyes, 

No  more  from  school,  his  playmates  bound  to  meet, 
For  low  in  death  here  honest  Carlo  lies. 

Beneath  the  branches  of  this  spreading  tree, 

With  tender  care  thy  friends  have  made  thy  grave, 

Where  often  they  will  come  to  think  of  thee, 
And  drop  a  tear  for  one  so  good  and  brave. 


THE    OLD    SPINNING   WHEEL.  61 


THE    OLD    SPINNING    WHEEL 

THOU  ancient  wheel,  whose  gentle  song 
Did  erewhile  please  my  ear, 
When  I  was  joyous,  free,  and  3<oung, 
No  longer  now  I  hear : 

For  in  the  garret  thrust  away  — 
The  prey  of  worms  and  rot,  — 

Far  from  the  genial  light  of  day, 
Thou  'rt  doomed  to  be  forgot. 

Thou  wast  my  grandam's,  and  her  worth 

Doth  make  thee  dear  to  me  ; 
Thou  wast  coeval  with  her  birth  — 

Ago  a  century. 


How  often,  when  a  wanton 

I  've  whirled  thee  round  and  round, 
And  clapped  my  hands  from  heartfelt  joy, 

At  thy  inspiring  sound  ! 

Those  early  days  are  past  and  gone  ; 
My  childhood's  friends  have  fled  ; 


THE   OLD    SPINNING   WHEEL. 

And  now  that  I  am  sober  grown, 
I  'd  prize  thee  for  the  dead. 

The  flush  of  youth  has  left  my  cheek, 
And  manhood's  seal  is  there  ; 

Yet  oft  in  memory  I  seek 
Those  days  so  void  of  care. 

But  fare-thee-well !  thou  yet  mayst  lie 

Another  space  alone, 
When  to  thy  nook  some  friend  may  hie, 

Long  after  I  am  gone. 

1886. 


THE    AGED   MAN.  63 


THE    AGED    MAN. 

THAT  aged  man,  that  aged  man, 
Who  slowly  totters  by  my  door,  — 
His  life  has  nearly  reached  its  span,  — 
Soon  shall  we  see  his  form  no  more. 

Once  he  was  young  and  hale  as  I, 
His  form  erect,  his  footstep  true, 

And  lustre  beamed  from  out  his  eye, 

Which  might  have  vied  with  heaven's  blue. 

Young  Jennie  was  his  blooming  bride  : 
She  long  beneath  the  sod  hath  slept,- 

And  he  must  soon  lie  by  her  side, 
Be  unremembered  and  unwept. 

The  village  knew  no  comelier  pair 

Than  in  their  youth  were  John  and  Jane  ; 

Their  hearts  were  light,  their  prospects  fair, 
They  were  indeed  a  happy  twain. 

Their  lives  an  even  tenor  ran, 

Each  day  new  pleasures  brought  along, 


64  THE    AGED    MAN. 

And  at  the  rise  and  set  of  sun, 
Together  they  would  sing  a  song. 

A  group  of  happy  children  smiled 
Around  their  ever  cheerful  hearth, 

And  every  thought  of  care  beguiled, 
With  prattle  sweet,  and  constant  mirth. 

But  with  the  crush  of  hapless  fate, 
This  happy  group  was  swept  away ; 

Poor  John  soon  lost  his  worthy  mate, 
And  all  was  sad,  that  erst  was  gay. 

His  children  o'er  the  world  now  roam, 
Driven  by  penury's  stern  hand, 

And  he  is  left  without  a  home, 
To  wander  in  his  native  land. 

But  though  old  age  has  dimmed  his  eyes, 
And  filled  his  broken  heart  with  pains, 

He  still  has  hopes  beyond  the  skies, 
And  of  his  hardship  ne'er  complains. 

1836. 


TO    CAURUS.  65 


TO    CAURUS. 

AY  !  blow,  thou  raging  blast ! 
And  vent  thy  utmost  rage  : 
Thou  canst  not  forever  last : 
Who  would  thy  wrath  assuage  ? 

Thou  mak'st  the  forests  bend, 

The  mighty  ocean  roar, 
Great  oaks  thou  oft  dost  rend, 

And  shak'st  the  strongest  tower. 

All  this  thou  dost,  great  wind ! 

And  oftentimes  much  more  ; 
But  thou  thyself  art  blind  ; 

One  sways  ye  by  His  power, 
Whose  ever  steady  hand 
Can  make  ye  move,  or  stand. 

1836. 


66  OUR   HARBOR. 


OUR    HARBOR. 

IT  is,  indeed,  a  fair  and  beauteous  sight, 
To  see  our  waters  on  a  summer  day, 
When  the  clear  sun  outpours  his  bounteous  light, 
And  blue  waves  'neath  his  rich  effulgence  play  ; 
While  darting  fish  disport  within  the  tide, 
And,  bounding  by  the  light  boats,  swiftly  glide. 

And  thou,  fair  gem,  bedecked  in  pleasing  green, 
That  o'er  the  scene  dost  cast  a  cheering  smile, 

Who  does  not  love,  when  all  exults  in  sheen, 
To  scan  thy  beauties,  lovely  Palmer's  Isle  ; 

Or  land  his  shallop  on  the  pebbly  shore, 

And  trace  thy  walks  with  lingering  footsteps  o'er? 

Where  yon  old  fortress,  crumbling  fast  away, 
Upheaves  to  view  its  weather-beaten  form, 

'Gainst  which  the  dashing  billows  cast  their  spray, 
When  the  old  rocks  resound  the  coming  storm, 

How  oft  I  've  listened  to  the  sea-bird's  call, 

When  resting  'neath  the  grass-grown,  mouldering  wall  I 


OUR   HARBOR.  67 

Come  here,  beneath  a  clear  and  summer  sky, 

When  day's  bright  car  rolls  down  the  golden  west, 

And  dwell  upon  the  scenes  that  meet  thy  eye, 
While  pleased  emotions  fill  thy  swelling  breast ; 

For  rarely  shall  a  fairer  sight  be  found, 

Than  such  as  will  thy  ardent  gaze  surround. 

If  to  the  west  thou  turn'st  thy  raptured  eyes, 
A  view  presents  that  may  with  any  vie, 

Where  our  fair  town  in  quiet  beaut}?"  lies, 
In  fair  repose  beneath  the  cloudless  sky  ; 

While  to  the  east,  her  younger  sister  queen, 

With  her  neat  roofs  and  village  spire,  is  seen. 

And  when,  returning  from  the  foaming  sea, 
Some  fair  ship,  laden  with  her  oily  store, 

Breaks  on  the  sight,  her  loosened  sails  all  free, 
And  bends  her  course  towards  our  happy  shore, 

How  gladly  meet  these  scenes  the  seaman's  eye, 

As  from  the  giddy  mast  he  shouts  for  joy  ! 

1837. 


68 


MOUNT    AUBURN. 


MOUNT    AUBUKN. 

TTERE  I  will  rest,  upon  this  hillside  fair, 
J-  J-     And  muse  upon  the  scene  that  me  surrounds, 
Where  towering  oaks  keep  out  the  mid-day  glare, 
From  whose   broad   tops   come  forth  sweet  mellow 

sounds, 

Like  funeral  chants  o'er  these  sepulchral  mounds. 
I  am  alone,  and  I  would  wish  it  so, 

For  with  high  interest  the  spot  abounds  ; 
And  while  my  soul  with  solemn  thoughts  doth  glow, 
I  would  a  lesson  learn,  ere  to  the  world  I  go. 

It  is  the  hush  of  Autumn's  genial  tide  ; 

Far  in  the  west  the  sun  his  course  hath  spent, 
And  wild  clouds  in  the  northern  circuit  ride, 

While  scarce  a  ray  to  light  my  path  is  lent. 

'T  is  true,  I  come  no  lost  friend  to  lament. 
Yet  I  've  a  tear  to  lend  for  those  who  mourn  ; 

And  even  now  my  rising  sighs  are  spent, 
As  towards  yon  grave  with  musing  steps  I  turn, 
Where  virtue  lies  reposed  beneath  the  voiceless  urn. 


MOUNT   AUBUEN. 

Fair  is  the  spot,  and  bright  in  memory's  page 
Comes  up  the  day,  when  bidding  books  farewell, 

With  tripping  steps  I  came  to  hear  the  sage 
Whose  silver  voice  arose  from  yonder  dell, 
While  listening  crowds  upon  his  accents  dwell. 

It  was  a  beauteous  day,  the  morning  sun 
Walked  in  rich  splendor  up  the  ambient  sky  ; 

And  when  adown  the  western  arc  he 


Each  haunt  of  this  fair  wood  glowed  with  his  brilliancy 

But  ah,  how  changed  !  this  lovely  spot  then  seemed 

Like  opening  Paradise  to  my  young  heart, 
For  Nature  here  in  rich  luxuriance  teemed, 

Where  monuments  now  rise  of  vying  art. 

O  !  why  should  pride  in  this  still  spot  have  part  ? 
Rather  let  Nature  in  her  wildness  live  ; 

She  will  around  a  holy  awe  impart, 
From  whence  the  soul  much  goodness  can  derive, 
And  feel  its  lagging  powers  again  in  life  revive. 

The  evening  shades  are  quickly  closing  round, 
And  every  songster  to  his  seat  now  hies, 

While  all  is  hushed  throughout  this  sacred  ground, 
Save  when  from  yonder  mart  low  sounds  arise, 
That  lull  the  ear  like  gentle  melodies. 

D2 


70  TO  **** 

And  now  with  pain  I  bid  these  scenes  farewell, 

Where  many  a  noble  form  in  quiet  lies  : 
Ere  I  shall  come  again,  ah  !  who  can  tell 
Where  now  may  linger  they  who  in  this  spot  shall  dwell  ? 

Oct.,  1837. 


TO    *  *  *  * 

TSAW  thee  when  thou  wast  a  child,  — 
I  see  thee  now  to  woman  grown  ; 
Yet  still  that  look,  so  sweet,  so  mild, 

Remains  peculiarly  thy  own,  — 
That  step  the  same,  so  light,  so  true, 

That  form  so  sylphlike  in  its  grace,  — 
Thy  gentle  eye,  nor  black,  nor  blue, 
Still  lights  as  erst  thy  lovely  face. 


THE    OLD    TRAMMEL.  71 


THE    OLD    TRAMMEL. 

RUDE  relic  of  a  day  long  past  and  gone, 
I  deem  thee  not  unworthy  of  my  page, 
Thou  who  ere  while  unto  our  shores  wast  borne, 
And  hast  survived  to  this  our  modern  age. 

How  many  scenes  have  marked  the  rolling  earth 
Since  thou  wast  first  enthralled  by  tyrant  man  ! 

How  many  years  of  sadness  and  of  mirth 
Since  thy  eventful  history  began  ! 

Alas  !  where  is  the  hand  that  fashioned  thee, 

Or  that  which  drew  thee  from  the  yielding  earth  ? 

Long  have  they  been  commingled  with  the  dust, 
Yet  thou  art  here,  as  fresh  as  at  thy  birth. 

Think  not,  I  pray  !  from  thy  neglected  state, 

That  thou  art  reckoned  but  with  worthless  things  ; 

To  me,  at  least,  thy  ancient  form  and  date 
A  mystic  store  of  pleasant  musing  brings. 

Thou  tell'st  me  of  old  England's  jovial  days, 

Which  bards  in  loyal  strains  would  proudly  bless, 


72  THE    OLD    TRAMMEL. 

What  time  was  quaffed  the  far-famed  Wassail  Ba**f  ; 
Those  roystering  days,   the  days   of  "  good  Queen 
Bess,"  — 

When  oft  within  the  old  ancestral  hall 

Loud  songs  of  mirth  arose  at  midnight  hour, 

While  spectres  floated  round  the  abbey  wall, 

Or  witches  danced  within  the  crumbling  tower,  — 

When  brightly  blazed  aloft  the  great  yule-clog, 
Of  welcome  merry  Christmas'  far-timed  fame, 

While  old  and  young  together  6ai \y  danced 
With  noisy  glee  around  the  cheerful  flame. 

'T  is  said  thou  graced'st  a  parson's  kitchen  once, 
Who  dwelt  at  ease  by  Avon's  sacred  tide, 

Where  the  great  Bard  first  drew  his  mortal  breath, 
Who  long  hath  been  the  Drama's  greatest  pride. 

Strange  sights  thou  there  must  oftentimes  have  seen, 
In  those  famed  days  of  kitchen  romp  and  glee, 

And  often  here  at  eventide,  I  ween, 

Would  "  Willy  Shakespeare"  steal,  the  maid  to  see. 

But  thou  wast  doomed  to  leave  that  happy  shore, 
Far  o'er  the  tossing  billows  to  be  borne, 


THE    OLD   TKAMMEL.  73 

And  here  amid  the  forest's  constant  roar 
Be  placed,  alone  thy  hapless  fate  to  mourn. 

Yet  thou,  perchance,  in  some  far  distant  age, 
When  ancient  worth  its  due  shall  meet  again, 

Wilt  from  thy  hiding-place  in  pride  be  borne, 
To  shine  as  erst,  thou  veteran  of  the  crane  ! 

1838. 


74  THE    OLD    SPANISH   BELL. 


THE    OLD    SPANISH    BELL. 

WELCOME,  old  Bell !  to  this  our  busy  town, 
Where  no  rude  hand  again  shall  mar  thy  peace  ; 
For  thou  with  age  hast  quite  revered  grown, 
And  gladly  we  thy  durance  vile  release. 

Thou  cam'st,  as  story  goes,  from  sunny  Spain, 
The  land  of  warrior  fame  and  knightly  song, 

Where  bloody  feud,  with  ever  ruthless  chain, 
Hath  firmly  bound  the  god  of  Freedom  long : 

Or  else  how  fair  that  bright  and  balmy  land ! 

With  charms  profuse,  and  rich  with  orange  groves, 
Through  which  the  stealing  zephyrs,  cool  and  bland, 

Make  a  sweet  haunt  for  age,  or  youthful  loves. 

Yet  proud  old  Spain  the  youthful  spirit  warms : 
Her  border  tales  of  rieh  and  wild  romance, 

When  mailed  knights,  in  rude  but  glittering  arms, 
O'er  tented  fields  led  on  the  bold  advance,  — 

When  Moor  and  Christian  long  in  contest  vied, 
Ere  war,  as  now,  had  gained  such  subtle  art,  — 


THE    OLD    SPANISH   BELL.  75 

Where  many  a  noble  form  hath  early  died  ; 
These  are  enough  to  stir  the  dullest  heart. 

And  now,  though  ancient  strife  its  warning  gives, 
Still  cruel  warfare  wastes  her  pleasant  vales, 

And  the  fierce  love  of  feudal  contest  lives, 
That  every  haunt  of  quietude  assails. 

But  far  from  these,  old  Bell,  thou  art  removed, 
And  much  more  worthy  is  thy  present  state, 

Since  thy  own  land  to  thee  hath  faithless  proved, 
And  with  foul  hands  thy  rest  dared  violate. 

No  cowled  monk  again  shall  hear  thee  ring, 
No  trembling  nun  by  thee  to  vespers  hie, 

Nor  matin  peal  from  thee  resume  its  wing, 
When  brisk  Aurora  mounts  the  eastern  sky. 

Thanks  unto  him  whose  ever  liberal  hand 

Hath  placed  thee  on  yon  stately  Gothic  tower, 

Where  the  fair  moon  looks  down  with  visage  bland, 
And  softly  falls  the  light  at  sunset  hour. 

There  mayst  thou  rest,  from  rude  invasion  free, 
And  sweetly  send  thy  silver  notes  abroad ; 

There  loudly  ring  our  nation's  jubilee, 
And  tell  the  sacred  hour  of  serving  God. 

1838. 


DAILY   TROUBLES. 


DAILY    TROUBLES. 

"  These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man." 

_  GOLDSMITH, 


ri^HERE  are  some  trials  of  a  kind 
J-      That  vex  poor  mortal  man, 
At  which  though  fain  he  would  be  blind, 

He  rarely  ever  can  : 
They  come  in  such  a  mystic  shape, 

Amid  the  very  air, 
In  vain  we  strive  them  to  escape  ; 

They  meet  us  everywhere. 

I  mean  the  daily  wars  that  all 

Have,  more  or  less,  to  wage, 
And  which,  how-much-soe'er  he  would, 

No  mortal  can  assuage. 
We  tell  our  sorrows  to  our  friend, 

If  we  have  such  to  call  ; 
We  find  it  is  the  same  with  him, 

And  so  it  is  with  all. 

Your  tailor  makes  your  coat  too  tight, 
Your  pantaloons  too  small, 


DAILY   TROUBLES.  77 

And  where  you  look  for  warmth  and  ease, 

You  find  yourself  in  thrall ; 
He  swears  it  is  a  splendid  fit, 

And  winks  upon  the  sly, 
While  you  in  vain  try  to  convince 

Him  of  your  agony. 

Old  Crispin,  he  abuses  }TOU, 

Although  an  honest  wretch, 
And  when  you  say  your  boots  are  snug, 

He  quick  replies,  "  They  '11  stretch  "  ; 
Or  if,  perhaps,  they  are  too  large, 

You  tell  him  thus  3*011  think, 
He 's  ready  for  you  here  again, 

And  says,  "  They  soon  will  shrink.'* 

Your  grocer  sends  you  home  some  tea, 

u  The  very  best  of  tea  "  ; 
You  are  a  blockhead  if  you  dare 

With  him  to  disagree. 
And  when  to  each  we  e'er  complain, 

As  we  are  apt  to  do, 
They  say,  "  We  can  all  others  suit, 

Except,  sir,  it  is  you." 

In  vain  we  would  the  precept  urge, 
As  through  the  world  we  pass, 


78  FAKE  WELL. 

The  lesson  of  the  golden  mean, 

"  In  meclio  veritas." 
And  so  we  're  doomed  to  jog  along, 

Through  this  life's  thorny  road, 
And  take  our  lot  from  day  to  day, 

Still  hoping  for  the  good. 

1838. 

FAREWELL. 

TO   H.  W.  L. 

FAKEWELL  !  no  more  together  shall  we  tread 
Our  long  frequented  paths  through  woods  and 

fields, 
Where  we  so  oft,  by  genial  spirits  led, 

Have  felt  the  boon  that  Nature  kindly  yields. 
But  not  forgotten  shall  our  friendship  be  ; 

Begun  in  youth,  O  !  may  it  last  with  age, 
And  when  alone  I  wander  far  from  thee, 
I  '11  oft  revert  to  memory's  hallowed  page. 

1838. 


SIMPLICITY. 


SIMPLICITY. 

HILDLIKE  Simplicit}^  thou  Heaven-born  maid  ! 
Sweet  is  the  influence  that  pervades  thy  walks  ; 
Gentle  and  unobtrusive,  thou  dost  dwell 
In  quiet  vales,  far  from  vain  Fashion's  mart. 
Thou  shunn'st  the  least  approach  of  worldliness, 
And  mak'st  thy  home  within  the  pure  of  heart. 
Such  is  the  stillness  of  this  sacred  spot, 
Where  Nature  undisturbed  lends  her  fair  charm, 
I  seem  to  see  thee  in  thy  virgin  robes 
Of  purest  white,  whose  graceful  folds 
But  half  conceal  thy  form  of  classic  grace, 
\s  thou  along  some  cooling  woodland  shade 
Dost  glide,  making  its  echoes  to  rejoice ; 
Thy  silken  hair  in  careless  beauty  spread, 
And  tossed  beneath  the  stealing  zephyr's  touch. 
After  thy  gentle  step  bright  flowers  arise 
And  fill  the  air  with  fragrance.     Thou  shunn'st  not 
The  homes  of  rural  industry,  where  blooming  Health, 
Thy  twin-born  sister,  dwells  in  kindred  grace. 
And  here,  within  this  unadorned  fane, 
Where  silence,  monitor  to  erring  man, 


80  SIMPLICITY. 

Broods  like  a  gentle  clove,  't  is  sweet  to  find  thee. 

How  deep  the  quiet  of  this  solemn  hour ! 

Made  solemn  by  the  Spirit's  holy  calm, 

Where  from  all  noise,  all  strife,  all  earthly  things, 

While  the  rude  world  without  is  bustling  on, 

Retired  within  the  temple  of  the  heart, 

These  few  and  humble  worshippers  of  God 

Assemble  in  their  neat  and  sober  guise. 

And  they  are  thankful  that  they  thus  can  come, 

And  humbly  worship  in  their  simple  way, 

At  the  eternal  shrine  of  holiness. 

No  wars,  no  persecutions,  now  appear, 

Such  as  erewhile  disturbed  their  peaceful  ranks. 

O  !  suffering  bitter,  persecution  rare, 

Were  once  inflicted  on  these  faithful  souls, 

Who  calmly  bore  them  all  for  conscience'  sake. 

If  thou  wouldst  love  them,  read  the  works  of  Fox, 

Of  Barclay,  Sewell,  and  of  noble  Penn, 

And  others  whom  the  Holy  Spirit  led 

Through  conflicts  hard,  and  tribulations  deep. 

Here  meditation  well  may  enter  free, 

And  does  she  not  ?     Look  on  those  earnest  brows, 

And  say  if  vacancy  be  found  within. 

No  pomp,  no  show,  nor  pride  of  worship  here  ; 

No  "  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise," 


SIMPLICITY.  81 

Nor  costly  trappings  lure  the  wandering  eye. 
Methinks  'tis  well,  this  waiting  on  our  Lord, 
This  simple  worship  of  the  Heavenly  King. 
Hear'st  thou  that  voice,  so  gentle  in  its  tone, 
Those  words  so  simple,  yet  with  meaning  fraught, 
That  from  the  heart  moved  by  the  Spirit  come  ? 
No  show  of  language  marks  the  peaceful  truths ; 
No  tropes  or  figures  rattle  from  the  tongue, 
Such  as  too  oft  set  forth  the  schoolman's  page, 
Laboring  to  prove  some  vexed  doctrine's  point, 
Which,  when  'tis  done,  none  may  the  wiser  be,  — 
Cobwebs  that  tie  the  energies  of  soul, 
And  bind  it  down  to  earth,  when  it  should  soar 
To  realms  above,  where  the  pure  Spirit  reigns. 
Why  will  poor  man  thus  shackle  his  weak  steps, 
And  limp  in  darkness  to  the  yawning  grave  ? 
O  !  shake  it  off ;  and  like  the  viper's  fang 
Abhor  its  poison,  that  engenders  death. 
All,  all  is  plain,  where  true  religion's  found ; 
The  simplest  soul  that  lives  may  understand  : 
Such  is  the  teaching  of  the  Friend  of  man. 
Is  God  exalted  by  man's  artifice  ? 
Can  proud  cathedral,  with  its  swelling  dome, 
Or  organ  rolling  thunder  'neath  its  roof, 
Give  the  Almighty  pleasure?     Vain,  foolish  man  ! 


£2  SIMPLICITY. 

To  think  in  these  that  thou  shalt  hasten  bliss. 

God  seeks  the  humble  and  devoted  heart  — 

All  else  is  dross,  unworthy  of  least  note ; 

For  when  the  soul  would  hold  communion  deep, 

And  feel  the  presence  of  the  living  God, 

How  welcome  silence,  fosterer  of  thought ! 

What  fitter  place  than  quiet  haunt  like  this 

To  rest  awhile,  and  dwell  on  life  and  death, 

On  Man's  formation,  mystery  profound  ! 

The  wisdom  of  his  God,  past  finding  out, 

His  bounteous  grace,  his  tender  guardian  care  ; 

Peace  to  the  soul  it  brings,  and  solid  good  ? 

When  thy  worn  spirit  sinks  beneath  its  load, 

When  the  proud  world  scoffs  at  thy  humble  walk, 

When  thou  are  pained,  and  almost  tired  of  life, 

When  friends  break  troth,  or  those  thou  hast  esteemed 

Of  worth  beyond  compare  are  called  away, 

Then  seek  the  silent  sitting  of  the  Friends, 

And  feel  its  gentle  influence  on  thy  soul. 

1839. 


AUTUMN   DAYS.  83 


AUTUMN   DAYS. 

THESE  Autumn  days,  how  gloriously  they  come  ! 
A  welcome  train,  though  clad  in  sober  guise, 
For  with  them  come  the  mellowing  tints  of  life, 
Borne  to  the  soul  from  every  scene  around  : 
The  influence  fills  the  grove,  the  upland  lawn, 
And  each  fair  haunt  that  Nature  daily  gilds. 
There  is  beauty  in  the  Spring-tide  year, 
When  the  first  freshness  of  the  fields  comes  on, 
And  the  sweet  carols  of  the  woodland  choir 
Are  heard  from  every  tree  and  hedge  around, 
Charming  the  ear  with  their  delightful  notes. 
There,  too,  is  richness  in  fair  Summer's  time, 
When  the  sweet  perfume  of  the  gentle  flowers 
Fills  the  wide  air,  and,  borne  along  the  breeze, 
Comes  with  delight  upon  the  freshened  sense. 
But,  like  a  sage  with  honors  bending  low, 
Brown  Autumn  moves  sedately  o'er  the  earth. 
Scenes  that  of  late  flashed  in  the  noontide  beam, 
And  sent  a  fragrance  round  their  still  retreats, 
In  sober  livery  now  waiting  stand, 
Ere  the  keen  frosts  shall  nip  their  latest  charms. 


84  AUTUMN   DAYS. 

How  dear  this  time  to  him  who  loves  to  stray 
Far  in  the  woods  to  meditate  alone : 
The  quickening  spirit  that  lights  up  the  soul 
Hath  here  a  power  that  rarely  else  is  found, 
A  soothing  charm,  that  prompts  the  soul  to  good. 
The  little  bird,  that  hops  from  spray  to  spray, 
Uttering  his  gentle  note  of  happiness, 
And  the  loud  jay,  that  now  is  often  heard, 
Perched  high  on  some  old  monarch  of  the  woods, 
Or  solemn  crow,  bending  his  distant  way 
Along  the  woodland  skirt  to  join  his  mates, 
Welcome  the  wanderer  to  their  happy  realms. 
Beware,  ye  sportsmen,  who  with  murderous  hearts 
Seek  the  sweet  lives  that  gladden  these  abodes  ! 
Your  deadly  sounds  no  music  have  for  me, 
Though  often  sung  in  songs  of  cheering  rhyme. 
Cease  your  mad  sports,  and  think  upon  yourselves  ; 
Dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  worth  of  life  ; 
Think  how  much  happiness  you  can  destroy 
By  one  foul  aim,  and  then  abhor  the  deed. 
Here,  too,  the  rabbit,  and  the  timorous  hare, 
The  whirring  partridge,  and  the  gentle  quail, 
And  thou,  sweet  harbinger  of  pleasing  thought, 
That  lend'st  thy  song  to  charm  the  musing  hour, 
Thou  little  cricket !  dear  to  childhood's  days,  — 


AUTUMN   DAYS.  85 

In  every  spot  at  this  rich  Autumn  time 

Thou  find'st  a  home,  a  welcome  home,  I  ween ; 

Welcome  to  me  thou  art,  for  thou  dost  tell 

Of  happy  hours  in  days  long  fled  away, 

When  boyhood's  fancy  dreamed  of  unbought  joys, 

And  aspiration  filled  my  youthful  heart. 

Then  like  a  boon  our  Indian  Summer  comes, 

Among  the  glooms  sweet  Summer's  death  hath  left. 

O !  if  there  be  on  earth  a  season  given, 

When  the  calm  influence  of  a  heavenly  scene 

To  mortals  is  allowed,  it  must  be  this, 

So  like  our  dreams  of  bliss  its  spirit  seems. 

How  gladly  to  the  sick  man's  room  it  comes, 

When  from  his  cot  he  trembling  ventures  forth 

To  catch  the  fragrance  of  the  genial  breeze ! 

While  all  around  admonishes  of  death. 

Sweet  breezes  blow  o'er  Italy's  fair  soil, 

And  balmy  air  is  breathed  in  Holy  land  ; 

The  isles  of  Greece  are  fanned  by  odorous  gales  ; 

Old  England,  too,  her  charms  profusely  spreads, 

Hoary  with  time,  and  filled  with  rich  romance  ; 

But  these  in  charms  supreme  might  fain  compare 

With  our  own  land  when  Indian  Summer  reigns. 

O  !  if  the  soul  can  aught  receive  of  life 

From  outward  sense,  it  must  be  at  this  time, 


86  AUTUMN   DAYS. 

When  Nature  in  her  solemn  stole  is  clad, 
Breathing  a  moral  to  the  wakened  heart. 
Lover  of  pleasure,  leave  all  guilty  sports, 
And  wander  forth  mid  Nature's  scenes  awhile, 
At  this  rich  season  of  the  waning  year. 
Here  thou  wilt  find  naught  to  disturb  thy  soul, 
No  strife  to  bid  the  wounded  spirit  rise ; 
Here  learn  the  lesson  which  true  wisdom  gives, 
That  God  alone  the  anxious  heart  can  soothe, 
And  that  in  Him  thou  shouldst  repose  thy  trust. 
How  the  wide  air  around  doth  teem  with  joy ! 
And  even  the  insects  that  have  dormant  lain 
Within  the  nooks  and  crevices  of  the  earth, 
Now  venture  forth  again  to  taste  of  life, 
While  in  the  woods  the  sprightly  black-cap  tunes 
His  lonely  whistle  from  some  slender  bough, 
Which,  borne  along  the  health-inspiring  breeze, 
Sounds  like  a  mellow  dirge  to  Summer's  reign. 

Oct.,  1839. 


THE    GOTHIC   TOWER.  87 


THE    GOTHIC   TOWEB. 

SEEN  through  the  trees,  I  love  to  view 
Yon  church's  gothic  tower, 
In  Summer  time  when  skies  are  blue, 
But  most  at  sunset  hour  : 

For  then,  lit  up  by  those  bright  hues 

Which  deck  the  close  of  day, 
No  sight  more  richly  could  combine 

The  solemn  and  the  gay. 

I  love,  too,  in  chill  Winter's  reign, 
When  all  things  feel  his  doom, 

To  gaze  upon  its  stately  form, 
Amid  surrounding  gloom. 

And  now,  half  hid  with  falling  snow, 

Like  frosty  head  of  age, 
Its  charms,  seen  through  the  misty  veil, 

My  musings  still  engage  : 

My  thoughts  are  borne  far  o'er  the  sea, 

To  Britain's  glorious  shore, 
And  there,  through  scenes  of  ancient  days, 

Her  storied  haunts  explore  ;  — 


88  THE    GOTHIC    TOWER. 

I  seem  to  see  some  village  church, 

Built  long,  long  time  ago, 
With  ivy  clad,  and  brown  with  age, 

From  whence  rich  memories  flow  ; 

AVithin  its  solemn  aisles  alone, 

With  awe  I  slowly  tread, 
For  on  its  sacred  walls  appear 

The  emblems  of  the  dead ; 

From  out  whose  quaint  and  crumbling  tower, 
Where  hangs  the  time-worn  bell, 

With  busy  fancy  rapt  I  hear 
The  curfew's  warning  knell ; 

Or  borne  along  the  rural  lane, 

A  tale  most  sad  to  tell, 
With  pious  awe  I  list,  while  tolls 

The  mournful  passing  bell. 

Such  thoughts  at  times  my  musings  fill, 

When  at  my  window  seated, 
For  there,  oft  seen  through  yonder  trees, 

That  tower  my  e}Tes  hath  greeted. 

1839. 


SIMPLICITY.  89 


SIMPLICITY. 

I'M  smitten  of  Simplicity, 
That  gentle  maid  with  downcast  eye, 
Unheeded  by  the  passer-by, 
For  whom  she  lends  a  heartfelt  sigh. 
Kind  solacer  of  earthly  ills, 
With  balm  the  heart  thy  spirit  fills, 
When  grief  and  troubles  thick  surround, 
And  bow  us  weeping  to  the  ground. 
Not  mid  the  sordid  ranks  of  man 
Shall  we  thy  smiling  features  scan, 
Where  Folly,  in  her  bauble  car, 
Wields  her  sceptre  wide  and  far,  — 
Where  grasping  Gain  bestrides  the  land, 
With  vassals  ready  at  his  hand, 
WUo  bow  unto  his  iron  shrine 
As  though  he  were  a  God  divine  : 
But  in  the  quiet  walks  of  life, 
Far  from  all  calumny  and  strife, 
Where  simple  Truth  in  beauty  lies, 
We  find  thy  gentle  sympathies. 

1839. 


90  THE    LOSS    OF    THE   LEXINGTON. 


THE    LOSS    OF   THE    LEXINGTON, 

WHAT  muse  can  paint  the  horrors  of  that  night  ? 
What  fancy  sketch  that  last,  that  fatal  hour  ? 
Alas  !  the  sickened  heart  turns  with  affright, 

And  shuddering,  contemplates  the  God  of  power. 

Roused  from  their  slumbers,  or  from  happy  dreams 
Of  home  and  welcome  from  beloved  friends, 

The  awful  sight  at  once  upon  them  beams, 
And  to  their  hearts  its  rending  sorrow  sends. 

And  when  the  last,  though  lingering  hope  had  fled, 
And  consciousness  of  their  sad  fate  had  come, 

When  soon  their  names  should  rest  among  the  dead, 
And  mourning  fill  the  late  fair,  happy  home  ; 

O  !  then  assembled  on  the  burning  deck, 
Father  and  mother,  child  and  reverend  sage, 

No  hand  the  raging  element  to  check, 

What  thoughts  their  souls  must  that  dread  hour  engage  ! 

O  !  Thou  who  rul'st  in  Heavenly  realms  above, 
Who  guidest  the  winged  lightning  in  its  speed, 


THE   LOSS   OF   THE   LEXINGTON.  91 

Thou  who  art  ever  crowned  the  God  of  love, 

Who  hast  our  sinful  souls  from  thraldom  freed,  — 

O  !  to  our  weak,  though  anguished  hearts  declare 

The  secret  of  thy  mighty  Providence  ; 
List  to  the  yearnings  of  our  inmost  prayer, 

And  fill  with  sacred  light  our  inmost  sense. 

But  why,  O  soul,f6uch  mysteries  seek  to  know? 

Why  for  a  moment  search  His  sovereign  light  ? 
Rather  in  faith  to  His  omniscience  bow, 

Trusting  in  Him :  whate'er  He  does  is  right. 

Jan.  19th,  1840. 


92  THE    POET    SOUTHEY. 


THE    POET    SOUTHEY: 

ON    LEARNING    THAT    HIS    MIND    HAD    FAILED    FKOM     OVER 
EXERTION. 

MY  heart  is  sad,  that  one  so  much  beloved 
By  every  friend  of  pure  and  lofty  verse, 
That  he,  the  high-toned  bard,  should  tfius  be  doomed,. 
One  whose  noble  mind  beamed  so  much  truth, 
And  sent  a  radiance  throughout  every  land, 
Who,  from  the  labors  of  his  busy  pen, 
Has  drawn  around  him  those  of  high  renown, 
As  strong,  admiring  friends,  and  raised  amid 
Those  beauteous  lakes  an  interest  rich  and  rare  ;  — 
'T  is  sad  indeed  to  dwell  upon  his  lot. 
No  more,  as  erst,  shall  wake  his  tuneful  lyre  ; 
Quenched  is  that  ardor  which  adorned  his  youth, 
While,  musing  'neath  old  Oxford's  classic  shades, 
He  sung  of  Nature  in  her  fair  retreats. 
As  on  thy  face,  which  from  the  artist's  hand 
Hath  crossed  the  Atlantic  wave  and  reached  me  here, 
I  gaze,  its  spirit  seems  to  mark  thy  fate. 
O  gentle  poet !  —  thee  I  gentle  call, 
For  thou  possess'st  a  heart  most  keenly  strung 


THE    FOET    SOUTHEY.  93 

To  all  the  kindlier  pulses  of  the  soul, — 

Thou  hast,  dear  bard,  loved  well  fair  Nature's  court, 

And  long  hast  practiced  in  her  genial  cause. 

Methinks  I  see  thee  now,  wandering  alone 

Among  the  woods  and  streams  of  thy  own  home, 

Where  old  Helveltyn  lifts  his  hoary  head 

Within  fair  Kes wick's  solitary  vale, 

Muttering  some  half-lost  lay  of  childhood's  hour  ; 

A  tear  upon  thy  eye,  thy  soul  suffused 

With  childish  fancies,  long  forgotten  friends 

Flitting  like  spirits  through  thy  wildered  mind, 

Remembering  better  scenes  of  early  days 

Than  those  more  recent.     Such,  alas  !  too  true. 

But  wherefore  mourn  his  lot  ?  the  all-seeing  Eye 

Beholds  and  guards  him,  and  will  ne'er  forsake 

One  in  whom  virtue  ever  found  a  friend  ; 

One  who  could  raise  his  strong,  impassioned  verse 

To  Him  who  smiled  upon  his  infant  face. 

And  while  old  England's  clarion  voice  is  heard 

Among  the  nations  of  the  wide-spread  earth, 

The  name  of  Southey  shall  a  watchword  be 

To  the  young  minstrel  musing  on  his  page  : 

The  name  of  Southey  shall  be  dear  to  all. 

1811. 

K2 


94  THE    NIGHT   WIND. 


THE    NIGHT    WIND. 

WIND,  that  against  my  casement  beatest, 
As  if  thou  wouldst  come  in,  despite  of  checks, 
Wherefore  thy  rage  and  roar?  art  thou  abroad 
This  wild  and  darksome  night,  whoe'er  thou  meetest 
To  battle  with  thy  harsh  and  ruthless  wand  ? 
Thou  shak'st  the  dwellings  of  the  shivering  poor, 
And  speed'st  the  wight  who  hastens  onward  home  ; 
Thou  bellowest  down  the  lofty  chimney's  throat, 
And  shock'st  the  group  around  the  blazing  hearth  ; 
Thou  bowest  the  forest  in  thy  furious  course, 
And  scatterest  fragments  of  their  mighty  arms  ;  — 
These  and  far  more,  thy  terrors  on  the  land : 
But  on  old  ocean's  deep  and  boundless  waste 
Thou  spend'st  thy  fury  ;  navies  thou  dost  sweep 
Like  winnowed  chaff,  and  on  the  rocl\y  shores 
Scatterest  around  the  huge  and  groaning  hulks, 
And  all  throughout  their  torn  and  thrashing  canvas 
Thou  howlest  like  a  raging  beast  of  prey. 
Old  towers  and  beacons  on  promontories 
Shake  fearfully,  and  extend  forth  in  vain 
The  guidance  that  but  for  tliee  were  welcome  ; 


THE   NIGHT   WIND.  95 

Now  only  showing,  with  too  fatal  truth, 

As  the  huge  billows  leave  the  foaming  shore, 

The  rocks'  deep  channels,  threatening  instant  doom 

To  the  poor  seaman  clinging  to  some  plank 

Or  scattered  fragment  of  the  gallant  bark. 

But  morn  shall  come  again,  and  thou  thy  rage 

Shalt  lose  ;  the  cheerful  sun  shall  usher  in 

The  day,  and  all  around  will  smile  again. 


96  TRUE    HEROISM. 


TRUE    HEROISM. 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  NOBLE  ACT  OF  A  GENTLEMAN,  IN  SAVING 
THE  LIFE  OF  A  DROWNING  BOY  AT  THE  EXTREME  PERIL. 
OF  HIS  OWN. 

TEARS  fill  the  eye  from  nature's  strong  emotion, 
The  heart  beats  quicker,  almost  unto  pain, 
And  feelings  kin  to  spiritual  devotion 

Wake  from  their  slumberous  state  to  life  again. 

Ah  !  noble  truly  was  that  high-born  action  ; 

Rather  from  heaven  than  earth  such  deeds  must  spring  ; 
Vain  shall  the  muse,  or  praise  with  its  attraction, 

Strive  on  such  merit  their  reward  to  bring. 

How  in  the  distance  shrinks  the  vast  collection 
Of  deeds  that  men  call  great,  but  born  of  earth  I 

Cast  to  the  winds  the  sordid,  rank  infection 
That  thrusts  itself  before  such  peerless  worth  ! 

Blush  ye  !  who,  ruled  by  this  world's  vain  ambition, 
In  your  own  circumscribed  sphere  would  shine,  — 

Seeker  for  wealth,  or  heartless  politician, 
Who  sacrifice  alone  at  Mammon's  shrine. 


TRUE    HEROISM.  97 

Come,  man  of  war,  in  deeds  of  blood  victorious, 
"Whose  dreadful  trade  the  erring  world  calls  brave  ; 

Come,  learn  from  this  how  much  more  truly  glorious, 
It  is  one  human  being's  life  to  save. 

Amid  the  heartlessness  and  fierce  commotion 

With  which  the  earth  throughout  her  bounds  is  filled,. 

The  soul  is  cheered  at  such  sublime  devotion, 
And  with  new  vigor  every  nerve  is  thrilled. 

Wide  through  the  land  let  such  blessed  deeds  be  sounded  ;; 

Let  Virtue  lift  her  head  to  wear  the  crown, 
And  selfishness,  with  its  proud  claims  confounded, 

From  all  the  wise  and  good  receive  a  frown. 

Enough  for  him,  howe'er,  the  approbation 

That  heaven  grants  to  such  transcendent  worth,  — - 

Supremely  more  than  if  a  mighty  nation 
Its  praise  in  one  loud  chorus  shouted  forth. 


98  THE  FATHER'S  LAMENT. 


THE    FATHER'S    LAMENT. 

I  WATCHED  him  with  a  father's  care  ; 
He  was  my  only  son,  and  pride  ; 
His  name  was  ever  in  my  prayer, 
But  ah  !  my  poor  boy  died. 

His  mother  smoothed  his  cold,  pale  brow,. 
And  looked,  nor  spoke,  but  sighed  : 

Alas  !  I  seem  to  see  him  now, 
But  O  !  my  poor  boy  died. 

We  laid  him  in  his  lonely  grave, 

Beside  the  greenwood  tree, 
Whose  branches  o'er  him  softty  wave, 

And  breezes  murmur  free. 

I  seem  to  see  his  cherub  face, 

As  when  a  little  child, 
And  strive  each  precious  charm  to  tracer 

My  sorrow  to  beguile. 

But  ah  !  fond  memory  seeks  in  vain, 

Our  darling  hope  to  find  ; 
The  search  but  gives  a  greater  pain. 

And  sadder  leaves  the  mind. 


DAYBREAK.  99 


DAYBREAK. 

FAINT  streaks  of  day  now  paint  the  ambient  skies, 
While  all  is  still  through  the  wide  welkin  round, 
Save  the  low  voice  of  varied  harmonies, 

That  fills  the  morning  air  with  gentle  sound  ; 

Or  when  at  times  the  early  cocks  rejoice, 
To  welcome  in  the  brisk  returning  day ; 

Or  far  away  some  distant  watch-dog's  voice, 
That  greets  the  early  traveller  on  his  way. 

'T  is  pleasant  in  this  fresh  and  quiet  hour 
To  wander  forth,  fair  Nature's  works  among, 

And  learn  from  her  the  great  Creator's  power, 
Ere  all  her  varied  haunts  break  forth  in  song. 

Not  yet  is  heard  the  busy  hum  of  man, 

That  soon  shall  wake  when  Sol  resumes  his  car ; 

The  noise  of  wheels,  and  laboring  artisan, 
Resounding  from  the  noisy  mart  afar. 


100  THE  POET'S  WEALTH. 


THE    POET'S    WEALTH. 

9fTl  IS  not  the  costly  pearl  or  burnished  gold, 

-1-      Nor  stately  equipage  and  titled  name, 
That  to  the  Poet's  heart  fresh  charms  unfold, 

And  breathe  into  his  soul  that  quenchless  flame  ; 

Nor  does  he  long  their  fleeting  toys  to  claim  ; 
His  soul  o'erleaps  such  transitory  things, 

And  soars  above  to  Him  from  whence  they  came  ; 
Or  with  delight  to  Truth's  fair  temple  clings, 
And  of  her  heaventy  birth  with  rapture  ever  sings. 

He  looks  abroad  through  Nature's  vast  domain, 
Forever  teeming  with  attractions  dear, 

The  shady  woodland,  and  the  outstretched  plain y 
To  his  rapt  soul  with  mystic  charms  appear, 
And  fill  his  glowing  mind  with  welcome  cheer. 

What  though  the  heartless  crowd  may  on  him  frownr 
And  seek  his  honest  fame  to  waste  or  blear? 

In  vain  they  strive  the  spirit  to  keep  down 

Of  heavenly  birth :  fair  Virtue  holds  the  crown. 


SEASIDE.  101 


SEASIDE. 

DARK,  dropping  clouds  are  rolling  overhead  ; 
The  sea  drives  wildly  o'er  these  craggy  rocks,. 
Whose  booming  mingles  with  the  sea-bird's  cry  ; 
While  seated  here  within  this  cavern  dark, 
My  mind  is  filled  with  awe  and  solemn  thought. 
In  the  dim  distance,  on  the  horizon's  edge, 
A  bark  is  moving  on  her  distant  voj^age, 
And  there  upon  her  deck  is  human  life  ; 
The  night  is  near,  with  tempest  in  k^r  shroud, 
And  that  fair  ship  must  bide  the  raging  storm : 
May  He  who  holds  the  waters  in  His  hand 
Guide  her  in  safety  to  her  destined  port. 

0  !  who  can  sit  him  down  on  this  dread  spot 
In  such  an  hour  as  this,  and  not  be  filled 
With  admiration  for  the  Mighty  One, 

Who  piled  in  such  bold  heaps  these  ponderous  rocks  ? 

1  thank  thee  with  no  Pharisaic  pride, 
My  God,  that  I  am  not  of  that  cold  class 
Whom  the  vain  glitter  of  the  world  so  charms, 
That  mid  thy  most  exalted  works  forget 

The  great  Framer  of  them  ;  but  by  thy  grace 
Can  feel  indeed  thou  shouldst  be  remembered, 
And,  too,  with  filial  reverence,  deep  and  full. 


102  WILD    FLOWERS, 


WILD    FLOWERS. 

YE  gentle  children  of  the  woods  and  fields, 
I  love  to  wander  through  your  quiet  haunts, 
While  all  around  a  healthful  fragrance  yields, 
And  the  sweet  thrush  his  mellow  carol  chants : 

For  in  your  ever  fair  and  peaceful  homes, 

Naught  of  the  world's  ungenerous  strife  is  found, 

But  gladness  to  the  weary  spirit  comes, 
And  fills  the  scene  with  happiness  around. 

Then  let  me  often  seek  the  greenwood  shade, 
Or  trace  the  path  across  the  meadow  green, 

When  Spring's  sweet  warblers  sing  through  wood  and 

glade, 
Or  Summer  flowers  enliven  all  the  scene. 


INSECT    HARMONY. 


INSECT    HARMONY. 

OMUCH  to  me,  in  hours  of  pain  or  grief, 
The  simple  melody  of  insect  life ! 
A  soothing  quiet  rests  upon  my  mind, 
While  gently  on  my  ear  their  chant  is  heard  ; 
The  memory  of  past  and  sunnier  days, 
When  life  was  fresher,  and  when  hope  was  strong, 
Passes  in  pleasing  view  before  my  mind ; 
The  fields  of  life,  that  once  such  promise  gave, 
Ere  the  sharp  scythe  of  time  had  mown  them  down, 
Present  again  their  flowers  and  verdant  crops, 
Seen  through  the  vista  of  departed  years. 
Sweet,  gentle  sounds,  to  him  with  ear  attuned 
By  sorrow,  or  the  Spirit's  holier  calm,  — 
The  humble,  contemplative  mind, 
That  shuns  the  discords  of  the  jarring  crowd, 
And  seeks  in  quiet  for  its  purer  joys  ! 


104  OLD    JOY. 


OLD    JOY. 

THOUGH  marks  of  age,  old  honest  Joyr 
Are  gathering  fast  on  thee, 
Thou  still  dost  love  the  eager  chase 
O'er  hill-top  and  o'er  lea. 

And  when  th}^  master  takes  his  gun 

To  seek  the  whirring  quail, 
All  ready  still  to  join  the  sport, 

Thou  bark'st  and  wagg'st  thy  tail. 

But  what  to  me  endears  thee  more,  — 

Thy  kind  and  gentle  heart, 
Thy  cheerful  welcome  unto  all, 

Thy  sad  looks  when  we  part. 

But  soon  poor  Joy  must  pass  away,  — 

I  pray  with  little  pain  ; 
For  rarely  on  this  earth  may  we 

Behold  his  like  again. 


THE    STRICKEN   DEEE.  105 


THE    STRICKEN    DEEE. 

AY  !  pass  her  by,  and  cast  a  scornful  look, 
Nor  deign  to  speak  to  one  so  lowly  crushed  ! 
Let  low-born  calumny,  and  scandal  base, 
Do  their  whole  work,  nor  grant  a  friendly  check. 
Ah  !  gentle  lady,  listen  :  time  has  been 
When  not  so  ye  would  have  passed  each  other  ; 
A  time  when  that  sad  face  was  lighted  up 
With  radiant  beauty  that  had  few  compeers  ; 
When  on  that  cheek,  now  pale  and  wan,  sat  smiles 
To  welcome  all ;  —  and  she  was  loved  by  all. 
It  matters  not  to  me  if  she  has  fallen,  — 
Fallen  indeed  by  calumny's  red  hand  ! 
Shall  we,  already  loaded  with  our  own  deep  sins, 
Sins  known,  perhaps,  but  to  God  and  ourselves, 
Pretend  to  judge,  and  to  make  outcast  one 
Whose  cruel  lot,  had  it  been  ours  to  bear, 
We  might  have  merited  by  our  misdeeds. 
If  He  who  taught  us  all  things  good  while  here, 
Could  pardon,  and  declare,  "  Go,  sin  no  more," 
Shall  we  poor  pensioners  pretend  to  scorn 
A  bereaved  and  broken  fellow-creature,  whom 


106  THE    POETASTER. 

The  Lord  in  his  kind  mercy  hath  forgiven? 
For  one,  I  gladly  give  to  such  my  hand, 
And  gentlest  words,  to  cheer  her  on  her  way, 
For  lone  and  weary  is  her  pilgrimage. 


THE    POETASTER. 

THE  bard  who  does  not  rise  above 
The  low  and  commonplace  of  life, 
Whose  highest  efforts  only  prove 
A  level  with  his  daily  strife, 
But  slender  title  to  the  name 
Of  poet,  or  of  seer,  can  claim  :  — 
His  lines  may  flow  in  mellow  verse, 
His  periods  rounded  oif,  and  terse  ; 
But  wanting  Nature's  magic  grace, 
A  few  short  years  shall  all  efface. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  WAMPANOAGS.       107 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   WAMPANOAGS 

SAD  and  alone  the  warrior  sank  him  down, 
Beneath  the  branches  of  a  riven  oak  ; 
Like  leaves  before  the  Autumn  blast  had  flown 

His  once  brave  comrades,  by  the  white  man's  stroke. 

He  looked  upon  the  ancient  forest  trees, 

Within  whose  fostering  shade  his  fathers  slept ; 

And  as  their  tops  waved  to  the  passing  breeze, 
He  sighed  adieu,  and  though  a  savage,  wept. 

His  bow  unstrung,  his  hatchet  cast  aside, 
His  war-plumes  vainly  placed  upon  his  brow, 

His  manly  breast  no  longer  swelled  with  pride, 
But  doomed,  alas  !  beneath  his  fate  to  bow,  — 

His  heart  is  broken,  and  from  death  alone 
He  seeks  a  refuge,  where  he  may  again, 

In  broader  fields,  and  hunting-grounds  unknown, 
Meet  his  lost  race,  no  more  to  suffer  pain. 

So  stretched  upon  the  mossy  woodland  turf, 
He  wraps  his  robe  around  his  heaving  breast ; 


108  HAUGHTINESS. 

The  brown  November  leaves  upon  him  fall, 
And  here  alone  he  finds  a  final  rest. 

The  moaning  winds  throughout  the  forest  drear, 
A  fitting  requiem  for  the  warrior  lend, 

Unheard  by  him,  for  death  has  sealed  his  ear, 
And  all  his  sorrows  there  have  found  an  end. 


HAUGHTINESS. 

BEAUTIFUL  !  despite  her  scorn  and  pride, 
But  ah  !  more  beauteous  still, 
If  these  base  faults  were  cast  aside, 
That  so  much  goodness  kill. 

How  sad,  where  so  much  virtue  strives 

To  conquer  every  sin, 
That  native  haughtiness  survives, 

Too  oft  the  prize  to  win ! 


WINTER    THOUGHTS.  109 


WINTER    THOUGHTS. 

"VWTHEN  the  Winter  wind  is  blowing 

T  T        Round  our  dwellings  sharp  and  clear, 
And  the  cheerful  hearth  is  glowing 

With  its  warm  and  steady  cheer, 
Think  ye  then  of  those  who  languish 

In  some  lone  and  cheerless  shed, 
Whence,  to  swell  the  soul  with  anguish, 

All  their  former  hopes  are  fled. 

Where  the  widow  in  her  sorrow 

Shivers  in  her  cold,  dull  room, 
Looking  for  the  hopeless  morrow, 

But  to  lengthen  out  her  gloom, — 
Late  at  night  you  there  will  find  her, 

Plying  at  her  lonely  task  ; 
Thoughts  of  other  days  attend  her, 

But  of  her  who  now  shall  ask? 

Stretched  upon  his  humble  pallet, 
Pale  and  weak,  the  poor  man  lies ; 

Anxious  still,  his  heart  is  yearning 
For  those  bound  by  dearest  ties. 


110  WINTER    THOUGHTS. 

Gentle  forms  are  suffering  near  us, 
Those  who  better  days  have  known, 

Sad  misfortune's  hapless  children, 
Left  upon  the  world  alone. 

These  are  no  wrought  tales  of  fiction, 

That  the  feeling  tear  may  flow  ; 
Fancy's  forms,  or  labored  diction, 

Little  suit  the  tale  of  woe. 
Stern  the  hand  of  want  is  pressing, 

On  the  victims  of  his  sway, 
Tyrant-like  each  hope  possessing, 

That  might  smooth  their  weary  way. 

1843. 


LINES    TO    S.    S.  Ill 


LINES    TO    S.    S. 

HOW  sweet  the  voice  of  Truth,  when  from  the  lips 
Of  those  whom  the  pure  Spirit  moves  in  love  ! 
O  !  ever  sweet  the  voice  of  woman's  love  ; 
But  never  more  than  when  in  the  great  cause 
Of  Christian  truth  engaged  :  ah,  then  indeed 
Its  gentle  tones  awake  the  inmost  soul, 
And  rouse  its  energies  to  Heavenly  things. 
The  cares  of  life,  the  world  with  all  its  wiles, 
Are  borne  away,  and  a  calm,  thoughtful  mood 
Spreads  o'er  the  mind,  till  the  whole  soul 
Is  held  in  high  communion  with  the  God  of  all. 
So  hath  my  soul  been  moved  by  thy  kind  words, 
O  gentle  woman  ;  and  to  thee  my  heart 
Would  bear  its  better  feelings,  and  for  thee 
Desire  the  best  of  blessings  from  our  Father's  hand. 
O,  when  temptations  from  the  world  surround, 
When  struggling  with  the  adverse  tide  of  sin, 
Or  when  deep  sorrow  shall  come  o'er  my  path, 
May  I  then  think  of  thy  kind,  loving  words, 
And  learn  of  thee  to  look  to  Him  above, 
Who  giveth  balm  to  heal  the  wounded  heart. 

1843. 


112  THE  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT. 


THE    MAIDEN'S    LAMENT. 

MY  thoughts  arc  very  sad  to-night  — 
My  heart  is  very  sad, 
For  I  've  been  thinking  of  the  days 
When  my  young  heart  was  glad,  — 

When  oft  within  my  father's  hall 

The  merry  dance  went  round, 
And  kindly  voices  greeted  me 

With  their  familiar  sound. 

I  call  to  mind  my  noble  sire, 

My  mother's  lovely  face  : 
Whose  cherished  smile  from  this  poor  heart, 

No  time  will  e'er  efface. 

How  happy  then  we  rambled  o'er 

Our  own  extensive  grounds, 
My  father  with  his  merry  friends, 

His  horses  and  his  hounds  ! 

The  dew-drop  hung  upon  the  rose 
That  reached  my  window  high  ; 


113 


While  blithely  on  the  aged  yew 
The  red-breast  warbled  nigh. 

But  O  !  those  happy  days  have  fled, 

And  I  am  left  alone  : 
The  world  but  little  cares  for  rank, 

When  once  its  wealth  is  gone. 

1843. 


114  THE    ANEMONE. 


THE    ANEMONE. 

TO    E.    S.    A. 

I  KNOW  a  gentle  flower  that  blows, 
When  Winter's  chilling  winds  have  fled, 
And,  loth  its  beauty  to  disclose, 
It  often  hides  its  modest  head. 

The  careless  eye  may  not  perceive 
This  lowly  flower,  so  sweet  and  fair ; 

For 'me,  howe'er,  in  wood  or  field, 
No  sweeter  scents  the  morning  air. 

I  meet  it  on  my  favorite  walk, 

And  stop  to  view  its  simple  charms, 

As,  bending  on  its  slender  stalk, 
It  trusts  to  Nature's  kindly  arms. 

This  gentle  flower,  whose  modest  grace 

So  often  hath  delighted  me, 
Though  missed  mid  Summer's  gayer  racer 

I  have  compared,  dear  child,  to  thee. 

1843. 


WILLIAM    LLOYD  GARRISON.  115 


WILLIAM    LLOYD    GARKISON 

BE  AYE  Spirit !  the  great  multitude  of  men 
But  little  comprehend  thee  —  whether  they 
Who  congregate  upon  the  busy  mart 
Of  commerce,  or  in  halls  of  classic  lore, 
Or  they  whose  names  stand  high  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  Republic,  if  so  may  be  called 
That  which  makes  lawful  trade  in  human  flesh  ! 
These  little  know  the  greatness  of  thy  soul, 
Thou  more  than  noble,  follower  of  the  Truth  ! 
They,  each  and  all,  however  high  their  aims, 
However  praised  in  patriotic  strains, 
Have  something  —  much  of  worldly  enterprise. 
The  gifts  and  plaudits  of  their  fellow-men 
Attend  them,  and  cheer  on  their  daily  course ; 
But  thou,  thou  of  the  soul  sublime  !  who  hast 
Spent  thy  early  manhood,  and  even  now, 
In  thy  mature  and  much  experienced  life, 
Art  still  unceasing  in  thy  arduous  toil, 
To  break  the  shackles  from  thy  brothers'  limbs, 
Whose  groans  so  long  have  sounded  in  thy  heart. 
Thou  art  despised,  and  scoffed  at  by  the  proud, 


116  WILLIAM    LLOYD    GAREISON. 

And  mighty,  —  prices  set  upon  thy  head, 

As  if  thou  were  a  cut-throat,  or  a  knave. 

This  is,  however,  but  the  same  story 

The  world  has  ever  told  against  the  good  : 

Man  is  too  slow  to  learn  ;  his  stubborn  will 

Confronts  his  reason,  and  shipwrecks  the  soul. 

That  which  is  plain,  so  plain  that  all  may  see, 

The  equal  rights  of  every  human  soul, 

To  the  best  gifts  of  Providence  divine, 

The  just  and  equal  sway  of  human  power, 

As  delegated  from  the  Heavenly  King, 

Are  truths  but  little  heeded  ;  but  instead, 

A  blind,  and  headstrong,  passion  takes  the  lead, 

Or  else,  how  in  a  land  boasting  so  much 

Of  liberty,  and  equal  rights  for  all, 

How  comes  it  that  not  all  who  till  the  ground 

Are  left  to  enjoy  the  fruit  of  their  hard  toil, 

But  wear  the  name  of  slave  ?  slave  !  in  a  land 

Called  Christian  !  claiming  to  be  first  of  all 

The  nations  that  spread  o'er  the  globe, 

In  the  protection  of  the  rights  of  man. 

But,  O  my  country,  dearly  as  I  love 

The  land  that  gave  me,  and  my  fathers,  birth> 

I  blush,  when  in  the  sight  of  other  lands, 

I  contemplate  thy  sore  disgrace,  —  thou  who 


WILLIAM   LLOYD    GARRISON.  117 

Persecutest  too,  thy  sons  who  nobly  strive 

To  wipe  the  stain  from  off  thy  else  fair  face. 

And  he  who  in  these  lines  I  memorize, 

In  whose  large  soul  oft  wake  the  gentlest  throbs, 

Who  loves  his  fellow-man  wherever  found, 

Whether  on  Lapland's  cold,  and  sterile  soil, 

Where  Nova  Zembla's  icy  turrets  rise, 

Or  where  the  scorching  sun  of  Afric  shines. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  he  should  thus  be  held ! 

But  not  by  all  art  thou  despised,  my  friend,  — 

Friend  of  mankind.     I,  at  least,  do  claim, 

In  common  with  the  chosen  few  who  stand 

Firm  for  the  bondman's  cause,  come  whate'er  may, 

To  honor,  and  respect,  thy  high-born  worth. 

Thou,  too,  already  rank'st  in  other  lands, 

»"**  9 

(And  soon  wilt  rank  through  our  own,  I  ween,) 

J^ 

With  the  most  honored  names,  whom  good  men  bless. 

Fierce,  and  bitter  persecution  have  beset 

The  path  that  Wilberforce,  and  Clarkson  trod  : 

The  one,  now  gone  from  works  unto  rewards, 

The  other,  calmly  reaping  his  just  praise. 

Thy  country,  too,  in  better  days,  my  friend, 

Shall  gladly  pay  the  tribute  due  to  thee. 

But  press  thou  on  !     Thou  need'st,  't  is  true, 

No  word  of  counsel,  or  of  cheer  from  me  : 

F2 


118  WILLIAM    LLOYD    GARRISON. 

Straight  is  thy  course,  thy  clear,  undaunted 

Knows  well  the  goal,  and  thy  prophetic  wand 

Is  ever  ready  to  point  out  the  way. 

Men  may  pretend  to  hold  thee  in  contempt, 

And  make  it  vulgar  to  join  hands  with  thee. 

'T  is  but  a  sham !  in  truth  they  honor  thee, 

Yet  want  the  courage  to  stand  by  th}r  side. 

But  thou,  far-looking,  heed'st  not  praise,  nor  blamer 

Sustained  by  Him  for  whose  great  cause  thou  liv'st. 

Year  after  year,  with  ne'er  untiring  zeal, 

Still  lead'st  the  van  of  that  small  company, 

Who  yet  may  save  our  country  from  her  fall* 

1845. 


TRUE  GREATNESS THOMAS  CLARKSOX.   119 


TRUE  GREATNESS— THOMAS  CLARKSON, 

ALL  is  not  greatness  that  mankind  so  deem ! 
How  blind,  how  dark,  the  multitudes  appear  ! 
Bowing  before  the  standards  they  have  raised. 
O  !  when  will  man  learn  he  has  nobler  claims, 
Than  just  to  follow  in  the  old  worn  track 
Of  base  ambition  !  when  will  he  arise, 
And,  throwing  off  the  gyves  that  have  so  long 
Shackled,  and  burdened,  all  his  high-born  aims, 
Walk  forth  in  noble  independence  of  the  truth ! 
Not  he  who  gains  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd, 
Who  wears  the  civic  crown,  and  rules  in  pomp, 
Who  has  the  envy  of  his  fellow-men, 
Less  fortunate  considered  than  himself; 
Not  he  who,  on  the  rostrum  of  debate, 
Can  harangue  thousands  on  some  trifling  theme, 
And  stir  their  souls  to  some  unhallowed  fire  ; 
These  are  not  great,  and  live  but  for  the  day  — 
Mere  butterflies,  that  flitter  a  few  hours, 
And  then  are  left  to  perish  on  the  ground. 
He  who  is  loyal  unto  truth  alone, 
Whom  no  temptations  false  can  e'er  allure, 


120   TRUE  GREATNESS THOMAS  CLARKSON". 

Who  ever  loves  the  good,  the  right  his  choice, 

Whether  it  brings  him  peace  or  crown  of  thorns,  — 

He  may  be  humble,  may  be  noble  born, 

As  man  has  chosen  so  to  speak  of  man,  — 

He,  he  is  true,  and  he  alone  is  great. 

Such,  noble  Clarkson  !  was  thy  virtuous  life,  — 

Happy  the  country  that  can  claim  thy  birth, 

And  well  may  England  cherish  thy  great  name.. 

Well  may  the  nations  claim  thee  as  their  own, 

Thou  more  than  noble  —  glorious  in  the  Truth  ! 

When,  through  the  long-drawn  years  of  coming  time. 

The  last  faint  tinkle  of  the  once  loud  peal 

That  swelled  the  praise  of  warriors,  and  of  kings, 

Shall  die  upon  the  ear,  to  wake  no  more, 

Then  shall  the  chorus  of  united  song 

Chant  forth  the  name  of  him  whose  chief  delight 

Was  to  plant  happiness  where  woe  was  found,  — 

Him  shall  they  write,  in  title  bold,  and  strong,. 

A  Friend  of  Man  ;  what  nobler  can  be  given  ? 

1846. 


SONNET THOMAS    CLARKSON.  121 


SONNET— THOMAS    CLAKKSON. 

DIED    ON  HIS   87TH   BIRTHDAY,    SEPT.    26TH,    184:6. 

AS  musingly  1  trace  the  historic  page, 
Dark  with  the  deeds  of  tyranny,  and  blood 

That  hurl  along  whole  nations  like  a  flood, 
At  widened  intervals  some  honored  sage 
Shines  with  rich  lustre  in  his  darkling  age, 

Calling  aloud  for  justice  in  the  land 

Where  frowning  king,  and  bloody  warrior,  stand, 
Or  with  fierce  madness  their  base  conflicts  wage  : 
But  from  the  great,  and  good,  the  earth  has  known, 

Than  Clarkson,  I  can  find  no  clearer  name. 
When  to  the  winds  the  warrior's  fame  is  flown, 

The  nations  shall  aloud  his  worth  proclaim, 

And  gladly  celebrate  his  peerless  fame. 

1846. 


122  SONNET   TO   M.  W.  C. 


SONNET    TO    M.   W.   C. 

PRESS  on  !  still  let  thy  cheering  voice  go  forth  ! 
Still  boldly  plead  thy  fellow-being's  right ! 

Thy  soul  sustained  by  Him,  the  Lord  of  Might, 
Shines  with  rich  lustre  in  the  darkened  North : 
Far  to  the  South  is  seen  its  kindling  ray, 

Though  little  heeded  in  that  tyrant  land, 

By  those  who  at  their  cursed  Moloch  stand, 
Where  sullen  sits  the  demon  of  Dismay  ! 
But  there,  e'en  there,  thy  spirit  tones  have  sped,  — 

The  panting  Slave  thou  oft  hast  made  rejoice  ; 

And  quailing  'neath  the  justice  of  thy  voice, 
The  surly  Master  hath  its  warning  fled. 
Press  on  !  devoted  one,  thy  way  is  clear  ; 
Led  by  the  Truth,  thy  soul  has  naught  to  fear. 

1846. 


LINES.  123 

LINES 

TO  THE  TRANSATLANTIC  FRIENDS  OF  THE  SLAVE. 

YE  who  across  the  broad  Atlantic  wave 
Have  sent  your  kindly  voices  hit  her  ward, 
Whilst  those  who  should  at  our  right  hand  be  found 
Have  recreant  proved  to  Nature,  and  to  Truth, 
We  gladly  hail  ye  as  our  cherished  friends  ! 
Ye  who,  afar  from  such  heart-rending  scenes 
As  blot  the  fair  fields  of  our  native  land, 
Have  wept  to  hear  the  distant  tale  of  woe  ; 
Ye,  in  whose  breasts  no  base-born  hate  resides  ; 
Yet  who  can  look  on  Afric's  sable  sons 
And  call  them  brethren,  heirs  of  the  same  rights 
That  the  great  Giver  of  all  good  designs 
For  man,  wherever  found  throughout  the  globe,  — 
We  love  to  rank  ye  with  the  truly  great  — 
The  noble  benefactors  of  our  race. 
Clarkson  !  thy  life  awakens  in  our  souls 
The  truest  reverence  due  to  Love,  and  Truth  : 
Our  infant  lips  oft  lisped  thy  revered  name, 
And  with  increasing  years  our  love  has  grown. 
And  ye,  of  later  date,  ye,  noble  ones, 


124  LINES. 

To  whom  we  owe  so  much  of  cheer,  and  strength , 
Your  names  are  watchwords  in  our  sacred  cause ! 
Thompson,  thy  thrilling  tones  of  eloquence 
Not  yet  have  died  away  upon  our  ears  — 
Thy  glowing  thoughts  are  treasured  in  our  hearts,  - 
Bo  wring,  thy  gifted  pen,  so  freely  lent 
To  spread  the  cause  of  Freedom,  and  of  Truth,  — 
Houghton,  and  Webb,  so  constant  at  your  posts, 
Ye  clear,  and  fearless  pleaders  for  the  Right ! 
And  Martineau,  and  Pease,  your  generous  aid 
We  fondly  prize  among  our  choicest  gifts. 
Abdy,  thou  too,  whose  rich  and  classic  claims 
Are  unsurpassed  but  by  thy  feeling  heart ; 
Howitt,  than  whom  no  firmer,  truer  name, 
England  affords  throughout  her  broad  domains  j 
And  Morpeth,  nobler  in  the  cause  of  Truth 
Than  in  thy  own  illustrious  name  and  rank,  — 
We  love  ye  all,  and,  in  the  bondman's  name, 
Invoke  Heaven's  blessings  on  your  noble  lives. 

1845. 


IMPROMPTU.  125 


IMPKOMPTU. 

A  MIND  determined  to  be  strong, 
Must  labor  hard,  and  labor  long, 
Must  seek  in  Nature's  wide  domain, 
The  Truth  that  o'er  his  heart  shall  reign, 
Some  noble  object  to  engage 
His  early  years,  and  downward  age  ; 
For  Man,  without  some  grand  pursuit, 
Is  little  raised  above  the  brute. 
If  honest  in  his  noble  aim, 
All  selfish  end  he  will  -disclaim  ; 
And  steering  onward  for  the  right, 
Will  soon  discern  the  beacon  light, 
That  from  the  ocean  waste  before, 
Shall  bring  him  to  some  peaceful  shore. 

1848. 


126  HO!  HELP! 


HO  !    HELP ! 

GIVE  np  thy  gold,  thou  man  of  wealth  ; 
Thy  strength  give  us,  thou  man  of  health 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  do  thy  part ; 
Thou  who  art  poor,  give  us  thy  heart ! 
The  slave  is  groaning  in  his  chains  ; 
His  blood  has  cursed  our  hills  and  plains  ; 
Our  foes,  regardless  of  his  fate, 
Have  sadly  wrecked  "  the  ship  of  state  "  ; 
Her  mildewed  sails  droop  o'er  her  side, 
Her  hull  is  drifting  with  the  tide : 
Ho  !  to  the  helm,  some  master  bold  ! 
Each  gallant  sailor  seize  his  hold  ! 
Man  every  yard,  let  hope  prevail, 
And  to  the  breeze  set  every  sail ; 
No  longer  stand  aside  dismayed, 
But  let  your  valor  be  displaj'ed. 
Shall  that  low,  black  and  blood-stained  craftr 
Which  dire  tornadoes  hither  waft, 
Our  strong  and  ready  crew  appall  ? 
Shall  they  to  Slavery's  dictates  fall? 


HO  !    HELP !  127 

A  manly  stand  may  save  us  now  ; 

A  shrinking  fear  must  lay  us  low. 

Come  from  your  farms,  ye  yeomen  brave  I 

Come  as  your  fathers  came,  to  save  ! 

The  cause  of  Liberty  demands 

A  nobler  service  at  }Tour  hands  ; 

Old  Nature  yielding  to  your  toil 

The  very  incense  of  her  soil, 

While  every  foot  of  upturned  ground 

The  voice  of  Freedom  swells  around. 

Come  from  the  workshop,  and  the  mart ; 

JT  is  Liberty  that  claims  your  part ; 

Not  only  for  the  bleeding  slave, 

But  that  which  all  must  rouse  to  save  ; 

For  now  within  our  very  homes 

The  tyrant  with  his  mandate  comes. 

Ho  !  to  the  rescue,  sons,  and  sires  ! 

Arouse  your  strong  ancestral  fires  ! 

1850. 


128  THE    FIELD. 


THE    FIELD. 

I  SEE  a  field  before  my  view, 
The  harvest  bending  to  the  gale  ; 
The  laborers  in  that  field  are  few, 
But  hearts  who  ne'er  in  duty  fail. 

I  'd  rather  labor  with  that  band, 

A  humble  gleaner  though  it  be, 
Than  feast  within  the  Southron's  land, 

Bedecked  with  spoils  of  slavery,  — 

Than  sit  in  legislative  iTall, 

The  champion  of  its  council  board, 

While  listening  as  my  accents  fall, 

The  heartless  crowd  my  words  should  hoard, 

Than  roam  the  world,  its  sights  to  see, 
Or  gather  gold  in  coffers  deep,  — 

Than  have  my  name  in  blazonr}^ 

For  which  some  human  heart  might  weep. 

The  towering  Alps  may  tempt  the  gaze, 
Their  ice-tops  glittering  in  the  sun  ; 


THE    FIELD. 

So  worldly  honors  often  blaze, 

Yet  cheerless  prove,  perhaps,  when  won, 

Then  with  my  sickle  in  my  hand, 

No  more  a  gleaner  let  me  be  ; 
But  working  with  that  steadfast  band, 

Strike  for  the  fall  of  Slavery. 

1848. 


129 


130  THE    LITTLE    BIG   MAN. 


THE    LITTLE    BIG    MAN. 

YOUR  Little  Big  Man  is  a  mighty  small  thing, 
He  puffs,  and  he  swells  most  importantly  round, 
Like  a  brisk  cock-turkey  he  shivers  his  wing. 

And  struts  about  proudly  on  his  ten  feet  of  ground. 

By  his  dress  and  his  mien  you  might  think  him  a  lord, 
At  least  he  would  like  you  to  deem  himself  so, 

Yet  never  at  home,  and  rarely  abroad, 

But  others  see  through  his  vain-glorious  show. 

True  greatness  and  worth  are  seldom  mistook, 

For  there's  something  in  these  which  all  can  perceive  ; 

'T  is  not  in  fine  cloth,  or  in  proud,  vaunting  look, 
But  the  true  royal  stamp  which  Nature  doth  give. 

The  truly  great  man  is  modest  and  kind, 
Knowing  well  that  before  the  all-seeing  eye 

His  wisdom  and  learning  are  paltry  and  blind, 

Though  reckoned  by  man  of  importance  most  high. 


THE    LITTLE    BIG   MAN.  131 

'T  is  better  to  pass  for  just  what  we  are  ; 

Our  merit  the  world  will  soon  enough  see ; 
And  if  not,  what  boots  it  to  give  it  much  care, 

So  the  conscience  be  clear,  and  the  spirit  be  free  ? 

1853. 


132  THE    THUNDER-STOKM. 


THE    THUNDER-STOKM. 

O  THERE  is  something  in  the  thunder's  peal. 
When  bursting  from  their  shroud  the  lightnings 

dart, 

That  to  my  mind  more  than  aught  else,  reveals 
The  great  Jehovah  —  the  Almighty  Gcd. 
Naught  of  the  earth  in  her  sublimest  scenes, 
Such  clear,  such  open  evidence  displays, 
Of  a  great  Ruler  —  one  Omnipotent. 
The  broad  expanse  of  ocean,  from  whose  realms, 
Mysterious,  dark  and  fathomless  abodes, 
Grace,  grandeur  and  infinity  are  felt, 
The  mighty  cataract,  with  thundering  voice 
Deafening  the  ear,  —  the  towering  mountain's  peak,  — 
Unfold  to  view,  and  in  a  language  strong, 
Speak  of  the  Almighty  Hand  that  formed  them  all ; 
But  faint  indeed  !  to  the  tremendous  voice, 
At  which  the  trembling  earth  is  called  to  hear, 
When,  from  His  great  pavilion  in  the  skies, 
He  causes  such  terrific  fires  to  glow. 
O  !  it  doth, seem,  with  each  repeated  shock, 
As  though  His  sovereign  presence  was  revealed 
Within  the  open  veil  —  there  riding  safe 
Upon  his  radiant  car,  careering  through  the  skies. 


A   WISH.  133 


A    WISH. 

TAKE  me  where  Nature  spreads  around 
Her  ample  store  of  woods  and  fields, 
When  in  the  vale  of  years  I  'm  found, 
Ere  the  last  hope  of  pleasure  yields. 

For  so  I've  loved  the  quiet  haunts 
Where  Poesy  makes  her  holy  shrine, 

That  death  himself  could  scarcely  daunt, 
When  mid  her  scenes,  this  soul  of  mine. 
1840. 


ANOTHEE. 

OWHEN  the  last  sad  hour  shall  come, 
Which  must  come  unto  all, 
Within  my  own  beloved  home 
May  its  stern  bidding  fall. 

For  who  would  perish  far  away, 

Upon  some  foreign  strand, 
Where  no  kind  friend  shall  lingering  stay, 

To  take  his  farewell  hand  ? 


134  FAREWELL   TO   WOODLEE. 


FAKEWELL    TO    WOODLEE. 

FAREWELL  to  thee,  Woodlee !  thou  home  of  my 
heart, 

With  pain  I  must  bid  thee  adieu  ; 
From  all  thy  fond  cherished  delights  I  must  part, 
Nor  hope  them  again  to  renew,  — 

From  thy  woods,  where  so  oft  alone  I  have  strayed, 

And  so  oft  with  those  to  me  dear, 
From  each  sunny  nook  and  deep  shaded  glade, 

So  potent  my  sad  heart  to  cheer. 

Farewell !  gentle  birds,  no  longer  your  song 

Shall  welcome  my  listening  ear  ; 
No  more  shall  I  guard  your  newly  fledged  young, 

And  keep  your  fond  hearts  from  all  fear. 

Farewell  to  each  scene,  so  endearingly  known, 
Each  green  bank  and  sweet  flowering  bed  ! 

No  more  your  fond  master  in  me  shall  ye  own ; 
For  others  your  charms  must  be  spread. 


FAREWELL    TO   WOODLEE.  135 

Within  thy  fair  walls,  O  Woodlee,  ere  long 
Shall  the  footsteps  of  strangers  resound  ; 

By  the  warm,  glowing  hearth  where  we  all  loved  to  throng, 
Will  new  forms  and  new  faces  be  found. 

Though  far  from  thee,  Woodlee,  my  footsteps  may  roam, 

Though  in  far  distant  lands  I  may  be, 
Yet  still  shall  I  deem  thee  my  once  chosen  home, 

And  fondly  look  back  upon  thee. 

1848. 


136  BE    HONEST,    BOYS. 


BE    HONEST,    BOYS. 

BE  honest,  boys  !  no  other  way 
Can  satisfy  your  souls'  desire ; 
Let  error  have  its  sordid  sway, 

But  simple  Truth  your  path  inspire. 

Be  honest,  boys  !  let  others  strive 
For  ill-got  wealth  or  ill-got  fame  : 

Far  from  the  snares  the  base  contrive, 
Seek  only  for  an  honest  name. 

Heed  not  the  prize  of  Fashion's  mart ; 

Its  empty  claims  and  worthless  toys 
Can  only  lure  the  weak  of  heart : 

Remember  this  —  be  honest,  boys  ! 

Behold  the  miseries  of  wealth ! 

Behold  the  miseries  of  fame  ! 
What  will  repay  the  loss  of  health, 

Or  what  supply  an  honest  name? 

'T  is  true,  that  in  the  world's  esteem, 
An  honest  name  's  at  discount  now  ; 


BE    HONEST,    BOYS.  137 

But  rather  weak  and  humble  seem, 
Than  at  its  heartless  idol  bow. 

Let  politicians  madly  rave, 

And  sell  themselves  for  guilty  spoil ; 
Let  Mammon's  subjects  dig  and  save, 

And  for  their  baubles  ceaseless  toil. 

Be  honest,  boys  !  no  other  way 

Can  satisfy  your  soul's  desire  ; 
Let  worldlings  have  their  short-lived  day, 

But  Truth  alone  your  path  inspire. 

1851. 


ft 

138  SINCERITY. 


SINCEEITY. 

I  LOVE  to  see  a  mind  sincere, 
Honest,  and  earnest  for  the  right, 
That  naught  can  tempt,  or  make  to  fear, 
Reposing  calmly  in  its  might. 

I  would  no  common  homage  pay 
To  such  a  one,  whoe'er  he  be  ; 

Though  clothed  in  rags,  despised  of  men, 
I  gladly  own  his  sovereignty  : 

For  such  a  man  to  me  portrays 
The  mark  upon  his  soul  divine  ; 

Upon  his  daily  words  and  ways 

The  sun  of  righteousness  will  shine. 

Such  men  the  world  may  rarely  own,  — 
A  prouder  idol  suits  their  taste,  — 

But  when  the  mist  away  has  flown, 
Their  vine3'ard  seems  a  dreary  waste. 

With  curious  eye  in  early  youth, 
I  sought,  amid  the  ranks  of  men, 

The  noble  bearers  of  the  Truth  — 
How  few,  alas  !  have  met  my  ken  ! 
1852. 


WOODLEE    LAWN.  139 


WOODLEE    LAWN. 

THE  grass  looks  green  on  Woocllec  lawn  ; 
The  bird  is  singing  on  the  tree ; 
Why  should  my  heart,  then,  only  mourn  ? 
Why  sadness  rest  alone  on  me  ? 

He  who  with  sympathetic  mind 

So  lately  viewed  these  scenes  with  me, 

From  each  loved  haunt  now  far  away, 
Is  borne  across  the  stormy  sea. 

The  fields,  the  woods,  though  bright  and  fair, 

Eejoicing  in  the  morning  light, 
In  vain  for  me  their  charms  prepare  ; 

Nor  wood,  nor  field,  seem  fair  or  bright. 

The  grass  looks  green  on  Woodlee  lawn ; 

The  bird  is  singing  on  the  tree  ; 
My  heart  must  still  be  left  to  mourn, 

'Till  he  shall  safe  return  to  me. 

1852. 


140  MY   LITTLE    NUN. 


MY    LITTLE    NUN. 

MY  little  Nun,  in  veil  so  black, 
That  tear  dry  up,  that  sigh  call  backr 
Revert  less  oft  to  memory's  page, 
And  let  kind  friends  thy  grief  assuage  :  — 
But  hold  !  I  would  not  stay  that  tear  ; 
That  sigh  I  would  not  from  thee  bear, 
For  Nature  seeks  relief  to  find, 
Though  friends  may  prove  both  true  and  kind, 
Then  let  the  gentle  tear-drop  fall, 
Nor  back  the  escaping  sorrow  call ; 
Time  shall  restore  the  accustomed  track, 
My  little  Nun,  in  veil  so  black. 

1852. 


THE    RAIX.  141 


THE    RAIN. 

POUR  down,  O  rain  !  pour  down  !  the  thirsty  earth 
Gapes  her  wide  mouth  from  out  her  countless 

pores 

To  drink  thee  in ;  the  trees,  refreshed  by  thee, 
Look  thankful,  and  put  on  a  fresher  face  ; 
The  meadows  and  the  cornfields,  scorched  so  long, 
Resume  their  green  and  cheerful  looks  again. 
Pour  down,  O  Rain  !  pour  down  !  a  welcome  sound, 
While  pattering  on  the  roof,  and  'gainst  the  panes 
Of  the  small  windows  in  my  snug  retreat, 
Where  lone  and  lonely  oft  I  pass  the  hours, 
Sometimes  in  pleasant  study,  —  or  the  pen 
Beguiles  my  solitude  ;  but  oftener  still 
In  meditation,  when  at  times  my  thoughts, 
Far  in  the  past,  bring  forth  endeared  scenes. 
The  past !     How  solemn  is  the  past  to  all ! 
Mellowed  by  distance,  all  its  rougher  face 
Rubbed  down,  and  polished  by  the  hand  of  time. 
Pour  down,  O  rain  !  discharge,  ye  billowy  clouds  ; 
Once  more  fill  up  the  panting  brooks  and  springs. 
It  comes  !  the  bounteous  Hand  who  holds  the  fountains 
02 


142  THE    RAIN. 

Poureth  forth,  and  in  no  stinted  measure, 
In  kind  remembrance  both  of  man  and  beast. 
O,  how  dependent  man  upon  his  God  ! 
Poor,  helpless  man  !  and  yet  so  vain  withal ! 
'T  would  seem  that  he  who  meditates  at  all, 
Or  looks  beyond  the  pleasures  of  the  hour, 
Must  be  impressed  so  strongly  of  his  doom, 
That  ne'er  again  the  baser  walks  of  life 
Could  lure  him  from  a  just  and  righteous  course. 
The  blessed  rain  hath  fallen,  and  the  earth 
Hath  quickly  drank  it  up,  and  now  the  trees, 
Through  every  root  and  fibre,  quench  their  thirst. 
And  every  blade  of  grass  receives  its  meed. 
A  happy  scene  of  thanks  ascends  to  Him 
Who  gave  it,  witnessed  in  the  freshened  face 
Of  Nature,  and  the  woodland  choir's  sweet  chant. 

1855. 


SIR   WALTER   AND   LADY    SCOTT.  143 


SIR    WALTER    AND    LADY    SCOTT 

AFTEIl   READING   LOCKHART'S  LIFE   OF   SCOTT. 

JOINED  again  in  life  eternal, 
They  who  loved  so  long  and  well, 
Where  the  year  is  ever  vernal, 
Where  new  buds  and  blossoms  swell, 
Hand  in  hand,  mid  scenes  of  beauty, 
They  securely  move  along, 
Finished  all  terrestrial  duty, 
Household  cares  and  gentle  song. 
Welcomes  from  the  spheres  now  greet  them, 
Long  lost  friends  press  on  to  meet  them  ; 
Scenes  more  wondrous  than  romance 
Meet  the  noble  "  wizard's"  glance  ; 
Prize  unknown  in  page  of  story, 
Deck  them  in  the  "  crown  of  glory." 

1855. 


144  THE    DAY    OF    EEST. 


THE    DAY    OF    REST. 

WELCOME  to  all  art  thou,  sweet  clay  of  rest, 
To  rich  and  poor,  forsooth,  supremely  blest ; 
But  mostly  to  the  poor  and  faint  of  heart, 
Who  with  life's  burden  feel  the  bitter  smart. 
The  weary  beasts,  by  kindly  hands  controlled, 
Browse  the  sweet  grass  or  feed  within  the  fold ; 
The  din  of  commerce  jars  not  with  its  peals, 
And  manufacture  stops  her  countless  wheels. 
Not  that  the  day  more  holy  should  be  deemed, 
Or  a  mere  harmless  act  be  wrong  esteemed  ; 
But  as  a  day  of  ease  and  sweet  content, 
Where  all  that's  virtuous  may  pursue  its  bent. 
All  days  are  holy  to  the  reverent  mind, 
But  this,  for  rest  and  peace,  is  greatty  kind. 
Then  hallowed  let  it  be  forevermore, 
Stripped  of  the  terrors  that  enslaved  of  yore. 


AUTUMN   TWILIGHT.  145 


AUTUMN    TWILIGHT. 

CHILL  the  Autumn  wind  is  blowing ; 
Evening  throws  her  veil  around  ; 
Soon  on  hill-top  and  in  valley 

Naught  but  darkness  will  be  found. 


*0 


Reft  of  all  the'Summer  glory, 

t 
Stand  the  stately  forest  trees  ; 

Where  so  late  sweet  notes  re-echoed  r 
Swells  alone  the  sighing  breeze. 

But  there  is  a  charm  in  Autumn 
For  the  contemplative  mind  ; 

Nature  aye  will  teach  the  reason, 
Truth  in  all  her  walks  to  find. 

Leave  the  school  of  worldly  wisdom, 
Thou  of  thought  and  care-worn  brow ; 

And  for  Him  who  rules  the  seasons, 
Learn  in  solemn  awe  to  bow. 

Look  abroad  upon  the  landscape, 
Meadows,  hills  and  woods  around ; 


146  AUTUMN   TWILIGHT. 

Are  not  these  more  grateful  teachers 
Than  in  human  lore  are  found  ? 

Search  the  broad,  blue,  arching  heavens 
To  their  vast  empyrean  height ; 

Think  of  Him  above  who  made  them 
Ity  His  awful  word  of  might. 

One  clear  beam  from  Nature's  teachingr 
Once  received  into  thy  heart, 

Shall  awaken  more  true  wisdom 
Than  a  score  from  halls  of  Art. 


THE    GENTLE    VOICE    AND    QUIET   EYE.          147 


THE  GENTLE  VOICE  AND  QUIET  EYE, 

NO  voice  within  the  vernal  grove, 
Not  e'en  the  blue-bird's  mellow  swell, 
Nor  meadow-lark  or  cooing  dove, 
Can  woman's  gentle  voice  excel. 

The  softest  tones  of  trembling  lute, 
Touched  by  the  hand  of  magic  skill, 

The  flageolet  and  warbling  flute 
Possess  less  charm  the  ear  to  fill. 

The  music  of  the  purling  rills 

Meandering  by  the  waving  trees, 
Where  violets  and  daffodils 

Nod  gently  to  the  passing  breeze  : 

Though  these  may  cheer  the  fleeting  hour, 

And  cause  the  poet  to  rejoice, 
Yet  they  unfold  not  half  the  power 

Of  gentle  woman's  gentle  voice. 

The  twinkling  eye,  the  sharp,  shrill  tone 
That  pierce  the  heart  as  with  a  knife, 


148    THE  GENTLE  VOICE  AND  QUIET  EYE, 

Are  fearful  e'en  amid  the  crowd, 
But  oh !  how  dreadful  in  a  wife  ! 

The  sacred  name  of  Mother  ne'er 
Was  meant  to  fall  on  such  a  one ; 

Beside  the  cradle  or  the  bier, 
I  would  the  harpy  ever  shun. 

How  soothing  in  the  hour  of  grief; 

How  thrilling  in  the  hour  of  joy  ; 
How  potent  all  with  sweet  relief, 

The  gentle  voice  and  quiet  eye  ! 

Among  the  charms  that  grace  the  fair,. 

Had  I  before  me  as  my  choice, 
I'd  take,  above  them  all  to  share, 

The  quiet  eye  and  gentle  voice. 


SPRING'S  WELCOME.  141> 


T 


SPRING'S     WELCOME. 


HP]  rich  luxuriance  of  the  vernal  year 

Is  spread  on  all  around  ;  how  grand  the  show  !. 


How  sweet  the  voices  of  the  feathered  choir 
From  yonder  thicket,  hid  among  the  leaves, 
Or  flitting  o'er  the  gem-besprinkled  meads  ! 
Noisiest  of  all,  the  bobolink  pours  forth 
His  joyous  medley,  full  of  life  and  cheer, 
Flying  across  the  meadows  fresh  and  green ; 
The  golden-robin  whistles  from  the  elm, 
Where  soon  shall  hang  his  slender  pensile  nest ; 
The  gentle  quail  is  piping  his  clear  notes, 
Calling  "  Bob  White  "  to  come  and  join  his  song,. 
Or  softer  warbling  for  his  scattered  mates, 
Rudel}'  disturbed,  perhaps,  by  my  approach ; 
Anon  the  cat-bird  blusters  out  his  song, 
A  curious  jangle,  still  endeared  to  all 
Who  love  wild  Nature  and  her  homelier  scenes. 
But  hark  !  the  thrush  has  mounted  yonder  elm, 
And  from  its  topmost  bough  is  pouring  forth 
His  rich  and  gushing  melody,  cheering 
All  Nature  and  the  soul  of  man. 


150  SPRING'S  WELCOME. 

• 

O  exultation  from  the  love  of  God  ! 

O  Power  Divine,  expressed  in  numbers  sweet ! 

Now  through  yon  pasture  where  the  bushes  grow, 

Let  me  pursue  my  meditative  way 

Unto  the  woodland,  where  the  spreading  oaks 

And  fresh  young  maples,  the  umbrageous  pines, 

Birches  and  hemlocks,  make  a  welcome  shade. 

Here  again  my  feathered  friends  salute  me : 

First  the  ground-robin,  scratching  'mong  the  leaves, 

Then  quickly  mounting  on  some  neighboring  bough, 

Calling,  "  Cheweet,"  or  from  some  loftier  perch 

Sounding  his  fuller  song  of  u  Pitchodee," 

Or  gentler  notes  expressing,  "  Please  don't  grieve." 

But  soon  I  hear  the  wood-thrush'  choral  song, 

Blending  so  richly  with  the  veery's  chant, 

That  the  whole  wood  becomes  a  temple  vast, 

Of  rich  aerial  music,  free  to  all : 

And  thus  are  welcomed  in  the  vernal  hours.. 


SECOND      SERIES 


1866  — 1869. 


PROEM. 


God  for  poetry  ;  for  what  were  life 
If  all  were  commonplace  and  simply  prose, 
With  naught  to  check  the  tide  of  daily  strife, 
That  in  confusion  ever  ceaseless  flows  ? 

How  fresh  arose  upon  the  morning  air 
Those  early  gushings  of  old  English  song, 

From  bards  who  drank  of  sources  fresh  and  fair, 
And  loved  to  mingle  Nature's  charms  among  ! 

The  lovely  landscape,  bright  with  early  dew, 
The  lark's  loud  carol  heralding  the  morn, 

Afforded  themes  forever  rich  and  new, 
Ere  pride  had  taught  these  simple  joys  to  scorn. 

Then  through  the  vale  the  shepherd's  pipe  was  heard, 
The  milkmaid's  song,  the  ploughman's  whistle  clear, 

That  mingled  sweetly  with  the  song  of  bird, 
And  spake  the  genius  of  the  vernal  year. 

The  straw-thatched  cottage  and  the  moated  grange, 

The  stately  castle  and  its  donjon-keep, 
For  our  home  comforts  we  may  well  exchange, 

With  feudal  times,  our  fields  unharmed  to  reap. 

But  fields  more  broad,  and  skies  more  deep  and  fair, 
Are  found  throughout  our  own  New  England's  shore, 

And  we  have  poets  that  may  well  compare 
Among  the  best  old  England  ever  bore. 


SOLITUDE. 

IN  my  humble  shanty  rude, 
Where  I  pass  the  graceful  hours, 
Sweetened  by  sweet  solitude, 

The  true  spring-time  with  its  flowers, 
Many  solemn  truths  I  learn 

That  are  found  not  in  the  books, 
Ne'er  denied  to  those  who  yearn 

For  them  in  their  chosen  nooks  ; 
For  primeval  wisdom  here 

Finds  me  ready  at  her  call, 
And  upon  my  listening  ear 

Oft  her  kindly  whisperings  fall, 
Telling  me  in  accents  clear, 

Known  but  to  the  ear  within, 
That  the  source  of  all  I  hear 

Did  with  man  at  first  begin  : 
And  in  silence  as  I  sit, 

Calmly  waiting  for  the  power, 


154  SOLITUDE. 

Knowledge  to  my  soul  doth  flit, 

That  in  vain  I  sought  before,  — 
Sempiternal  wisdom  deep, 

From  the  endless  Source  Divine, 
Not  as  creeds  and  dogmas  creep, 

But  as  doth  the  day-god  shine, 
With  broad  beams  of  golden  light, 

Reaching  into  every  cell, 
Driving  out  the  ancient  night, 

That  my  soul  in  peace  may  dwell. 
Thus  I'm  taught  to  look  and  learn, 

Rather  calmly  to  receive,  — 
And  from  stupid  schoolmen  turn 

To  that  which  will  ne'er  deceive  ; 
To  the  fountain  of  all  truth, 

To  the  God  of  life  and  love, 
Whence  the  seeking  soul,  forsooth, 

Learns  its  happiness  to  prove. 

1800. 


FORTY   YEAES    AGO.  155 


FOETY    YEAES    AGO. 

THE  same  clear  notes  the  robin  sings, 
While  on  her  nest  his  mate  is  sitting ; 
The  oriole,  with  sable  wings 

And  golden  breast,  is  by  me  flitting ; 

The  martins  chatter  from  the  eaves, 

The  swallows  through  the  old  barn  flying ; 

The  vireos  among  the  leaves 

Of  elms  in  song  as  erst  are  vying. 

The  Summer  air  is  just  the  same, 
The  same  blue  sky  and  fleecy  cloud  ; 

A  thousand  things  endeared  by  name, 
A  thousand  thoughts  my  memory  crowd. 

The  harvest-fly,  with  long-drawn  note, 
Salutes  the  drowsy  noontide  hour, 

And  on  the  soothing  breezes  float 

The  cricket's  chimes  of  mystic  power. 

The  raspberry  ripens  b}7  the  wall 

That  bounds  the  new-mown  meadow's  side ; 


156  FOKTY   YEARS    AGO. 

The  bayberry  and  spirea  tall 

Are  growing  still  there  side  by  side. 

The  primrose  by  the  wayside  smiles, 
Where  soon  the  golden-rod  shall  tower ; 

Its  beauty  still  my  heart  beguiles, 
As  in  my  boyhood's  sunniest  hour. 

Midsummer  in  her  glory  reigns 
In  this  our  fair  New  England  clime ; 

Among  her  glorious  hills  and  plains, 
How  rich  this  generous  flow  of  time ! 

In  all  around  I  miss  no  power ; 

I  find  no  change  in  earth  or  air  — 
The  same  as  in  life's  vernal  hour, 

When  eacli  new  sense  was  fresh  and  fair. 

No  change  in  Nature's  grand  domains, 
As  rolling  on  the  seasons  go  ;  — 

Though  man  may  change,  she  still  remains 
The  same  as  forty  years  ago. 


WINTER    EVENING.  157 


WINTER    EVENING. 

THE  snow  falls  on  my  shanty  roof, 
And  fiercely  drives  against  the  door ; 
But  my  warm  fire  keeps  harm  aloof, 
And  flickers  on  the  hard-pine  floor ; 

Flickers  upon  the  boards  and  beams 
That  form  my  humble  rustic  dome, 

Where  flies  enjoy  their  Winter  dreams, 
And  wasps  and  spiders  find  a  home. 

•Companions  of  my  solitude, 

Ye  're  welcome  to  your  chosen  nooks, 
In  this  my  habitation  rude  ; 
Ye  never  on  my  peace  intrude, 

But  leave  mo  to  my  thoughts  and  books. 

:So  let  the  storm  beat  loud  without, 
If  only  peace  may  rule  within  ; 

All  harping  ills  I  '11  put  to  rout, 
And  deem  my  solitude  no  sin. 

1858. 

.H 


158  FALL. 


FALL. 

THE  maple's  changing  leaves  declare 
The  season's  hasty  close, 
Yet  still  along  the  wayside  fair 
I  see  the  sweet  wild-rose  ; 

Still  from  the  orchard's  leafy  bowers 

The  bluebird  warbles  clear, 
And  still  our  garden  sports  its  flowers, 

Though  nipping  frosts  are  near. 

The  Autumn  days  in  youth  are  sweet, 
For  hope  then  keeps  us  strong  ; 

But  oh  !  how  differently  we  meet 
When  busy  memories  throng ! 

1858. 


OCTOBER'S  CLOSE.  159 


OCTOBER'S    CLOSE. 

A  GOLDEN  sunset  closed  this  Autumn  clay, 
The  last  sweet  day  of  sweet  October's  month, 
Ye  days  of  golden  light,  farewell !     No  more 
The  woods  and  fields,  my  favorite  haunts, 
Shall  smile  amid  decaying  Nature  round. 
Now  welcome  darker  skies  and  gusty  days, 
Keen,  cutting  winds,  and  storms  of  rain  and  sleet  ; 
Welcome,  November  !  month  of  wind  and  storm. 
Far  down  the  valley  sounds  the  anthem  loud, 
Mid  rustling  leaves  that  whirl  along  my  path, 
Where  I  again  my  old  companions  meet,  — 
The  rabbit  and  the  squirrel,  genial  friends 
That  seem  to  recognize  my  friendly  looks, 
And  scarcely  shun  me.     Nature  now  assumes 
Her  wintry  garb  ;  and  I  once  more  frequent 
These  solitary  realms  sacred  to  peace. 


160  THE    CHICKADEE. 


THE    CHICKADEE. 

THOU  little  black-cap,  chirping  at  my  door, 
And  then  saluting,  with  thy  gentle  song 
Or  lonely  whistle,  my  attentive  ear, 
A  hearty  welcome  would  I  give  to  thee, 
Thou  teacher  blest  of  quietness  and  peace  — 
Sweet  minister  of  love  for  hearts  awaLo 
To  the  rare  minstrelsy  of  field  and  wood. 
Thou  constant  friend  !  I  hail  thee  with  delight, 
Who  at  this  season  of  rude  Winter's  reign, 
When  all  the  cheerful  Summer  birds  are  fled, 
Dost  still  remain  to  cheer  the  heart  of  man ! 
And  though  in  numbers  few  thy  song  is  given, 
Two  tranquil  notes  alone  thy  fullest  sory, 
Yet  scarcely  when  the  joyous  year  brings  back 
The  swelling  choir  of  various  noteo  once  more, 
Have  I  found  deeper  or  more  welcome  strains  ; 
For  when  all  nature  glows  with  life  again, 
When  hills  and  dales  put  on  their  vernal  gear, 
When  gentle  wild-flowers  burst  upon  our  gaze, 
With  all  the  exultation  of  the  year, 
Our  souls,  unequal  to  the  heavenly  boon, 


THE    CHICKADEE.  161 

Are  often  overwhelmed  ;  and  in  the  attempt 
To  enjoy  it  all,  drop  listless  and  confused. 
But  at  the  close  of  these  sweet  sights  and  sounds, 
This  grand  display  of  God's  enriching  power, 
The  trees  all  bare,  and  nature's  russet  stole 
Thrown  o'er  the  landscape,  chill  must  be  the  heart, 
Ingrate  to  Him  who  rules  the  perfect  year, 
That  is  not  gladdened  by  thy  gentle  song. 

1859. 


162  THE    OLD    FOUNTAIN. 


THE    OLD    FOUNTAIN. 

HOW  rich  the  well-springs  of  old  English  versey 
Sparkling  with  dew  and  freshness  ever, 
Where  poets  dream  of  love,  and  joys  rehearse, 
From  whose  sweet  songs  may  I  be  parted  never : 

For  with  them  and  with  thee,  dear  Nature,  I 
Have  dwelt  so  long,  and  so  serenely  dwelt, 

That  nothing  deeper  'neath  the  ambient  sky, 
In  sweet  communion  hath  my  spirit  felt ;  — 

From  childhood's  dawn  to  manhood  and  old  age,. 

The  riches  of  my  life,  of  hope  the  spring, 
Shining  from  out  the  glory-lighted  page, 

Illumed  by  Him  who  plumes  the  muse's  wing. 

And  I  would  bid  you,  friends,  wherever  found, 
To  come  and  drink  of  this  perennial  stream, 

The  cheer  of  life  in  its  dull  daily  round, 

And  catch  at  times  of  higher  truths  a  gleam  : 

For  man  immortal  needs  some  grander  aim 
Than  just  to  pander  to  the  body's  wants,  — 


THE    OLD   FOUNTAIN.  163 

Some  soul  inspiring  theme  to  light  the  flame, 

And  lead  him  onward  through  fair  Nature's  haunts, 

Search  then  these  ancient  sources  of  the  muse, 
So  full  of  morning  and  the  love  of  song,  — 

Of  gentle  flowers,  whose  freshness  will  diffuse 
A  glow  of  life  its  sadder  walks  among. 


164  TO    K.  W.  E. 


TO    E.    W.    E. 

DEAR,  amiable  man,  of  soul  sublime, 
How  like  a  tower  thou  risest  to  our  eyes ; 
Or  like  a  stately  ship  of  rich  emprise, 
Laden  with  choicest  freight  from  some  fair  clime, 
To  scatter  blessings  in  a  needful  time  ! 
Well  hast  thou  wrought  thy  way  through  masses  deep 
Of  rampant  evils,  or  through  those  that  sleep, 
Yet  when  awakened  charge  thee  with  their  crime. 
No  lack  have  we  on  our  New  England  soil 
Of  gifted  spirits,  to  their  country  dear, 
Who  in  their  noble  spheres  unceasing  toil ; 
But  in  the  highest  walks  thou  hast  no  peer. 
A  Parker  or  a  Beecher  strong  may  plough 
The  fallow  ground,  but  thou  the  seed  must  sow. 

1858. 


TO    R.  W.  E.  165 


TO    THE    SAME  : 

ON   READING   HIS   LINES    "TO   THE   MUSE." 

THOU  writest  of  the  muse,  thou  seek'st  to  find,  — 
Whose  footsteps  lead  thee  fleeter  than  the  wind. 
Thyself  a  "  Beckoner  "  and  "  Escape"  most  rare, 
Through  the  deep  mazes  of  th}^  fertile  mind, 
Dost  take  us  all  thy  ros3r  gifts  to  share, 
But  still  thyself  we  reach  not  anywhere  ; 
For  higher  yet  and  farther  off  thou  art, 
As  we  draw  near  unto  the  chosen  spot, 
To  find  that  thou  hast  ta'en  a  fresher  start, 
And  where  thou  beckoned'st,  there  to  gain  thee  not. 
Thou  "  mutablest  Perversity,"  forsooth  ! 
In  writing  thus  about  the  errant  muse. 
Whom  thou  of  subtlest  wanderings  dost  accuse, 
Thou  hast  thyself  portrayed  in  very  truth ! 
Still  lead  thou  on,  though  we  may  ne'er  attain 
The  promised  land  of  fair  content,  and  true  ; 
Enough  if  we  may  break  the  encumbering  chain, 
And  haply  catch,  at  times,  a  Pisgah  view. 

1860. 

H2 


16G  A    VERNAL    ODE. 


A    VERNAL    ODE. 

TO   W.  E.  C. 

THE  blue-bird  has  come,  and  the  violet  is  blooming, 
The  love-tinted  wind-flower  peeps  forth  from  its 

bed, 
The  heralds  of  Spring  now  thickly  are  coming,  — 

Each  da}*-  some  new  treasure  before  us  will  spread. 
The  wild  geese  aloft  are  flying  b}^  daily, 

As  northward  they  hie  to  their  Summer  retreat ; 
Each  thing  of  new  life  is  shining  forth  gaily, 
The  lover  of  Nature  in  friendship  to  greet. 

The  farmers  already  their  toils  are  beginning, 

The  herring  and  shad  to  our  river  have  come  ; 
This  gush  of  new  life,  so  fresh  and  so  winning, 

Invites  the  pale  student  mid  fresh  scenes  to  roam. 
Then  leave,  brother  bard,  your  brain-taxing  labors, 

The  charms  of  the  season  once  more  to  enjoy, 
While  the  fair,  blooming  Spring  is  so  rich  in  her  favors ; 

For  "  all  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy." 

1857. 


SUMMER'S  CLOSE.  167 


SUMMER'S    CLOSE. 

NO  longer  chants  at  early  morn 
The  thrush  his  mellow  song ; 
Each  thing  of  life  then  newly  born 
Has  flown,  or  perished  long. 

The  blue-bird  and  the  purple  finch, 

That  late  among  the  trees 
So  sweetly  warbled  forth  their  notes, 

Borne  on  the  gentle  breeze  ; 

The  oriole  and  bobolink, 

That  cheered  the  Summer  days, 
With  all  the  field  and  woodland  choir, 

No  longer  tune  their  lays. 

The  young  birds,  clamorous  for  their  food, 

Within  the  orchard's  shade, 
Long  since  have  sought  the  neighboring  wood, 

And  there  new  homes  have  made.     . 

Now  perched  high  on  some  forest  tree, 
The  jay  shouts  forth  his  call, 


168  SUMMER'S  CLOSE. 

And  startled  coveys  whir  away 
Among  the  birches  tall. 

The  sweet,  fair  flowers,  that  decked  the  earth,. 

And  made  my  walks  so  glad, 
Have  fallen  scattered  on  the  ground, 

And  left  me  lone  and  sad. 

The  rose,  that  near  my  window  bloomed, 

All  wet  with  morning  dew, 
And  far  around  the  air  perfumed, 

Now  withered  meets  my  view. 

The  fields  no  longer  fresh  and  green, 

The  brown  and  ripened  maize, 
And  birds  in  flocks  together  seen, 

Proclaim  of  shorter  days. 

So  pass  away  the  days  of  life, 

The  Springtime  and  its  flowers, 
While  mellow  Autumn  binds  the  sheaf 

For  Winter's  lengthened  hours. 

1855. 


A   WORD    OF    CHEER. 


A    WOKD    OF    CHEER. 

HERE  'S  a  hand  to  struggling  merit, 
And  a  heart  warm  with  it  too  ; 
Ye  who  hope,  but  want  inherit, 
Let  a  brother  welcome  you. 

Sons  and  daughters,  cease  not  striving  ; 

Youth  and  courage  must  prevail ; 
Let  not  doubt  of  faith  depriving, 

Cause  your  noble  gifts  to  fail. 

Dearly  bought,  that  glorious  treasure, 
For  which  souls  like  yours  aspire  ; 

Found  not  mid  the  haunts  of  pleasure, 
The  reward  that  you  desire  : 

But  through  paths  of  pain  and  labor, 
Through  long  years  of  ceaseless  toil. 

Comes  at  length  the  long-sought  favor, 
Harvest  rich  of  genial  soil. 

God  and  Nature  ever  kindly 
Smile  upon  your  grand  career  ; 


170  A   WORD    OF    CHEER. 

Heed  not,  then,  if  base  and  blindly 
Pride  may  at  your  efforts  jeer. 

'T  is  the  fate  of  all  true  merit 
Long  to  suffer  and  to  strive, 

But  keep  up  your  noble  spirit, 

And  the  deeds  you  do  shall  live,  — 

Live  when  wealth  and  titles  vanish, 
Live  and  flourish  like  the  tree, 

Whose  broad  arms  adorn  the  landscape, 
Whose  strong  roots  from  rot  are  free. 

Not  from  out  the  halls  of  grandeur, 
Not  from  ranks  of  worldly  fame, 

Not  where  gold  and  silver  glitter, 
Spring  the  great  and  good  of  name. 

'Neath  some  lowly  roof  we  find  them, 

4 

Whom  no  earthly  bribe  could  lure, 
Pressed  by  toil's  unyielding  mandate, 
Sons  and  daughters  of  the  poor. 

Wealth,  with  all  the  pride  of  station, 
But  beclouds  the  brilliant  mind  ; 

They  who  most  adorn  their  nation, 
From  the  humbler  walks  we  find. 


A   WORD    OF   CHEER.  171 

Lowly  lot  and  brave  encounter, 

Doing  well  your  chosen  part, 
Wise  contentment,  generous  nature, 

Well  become  the  strong  of  heart. 

How  much  nobler,  how  much  better, 

Honest  industry  like  yours, 
Than  the  wasted  hours  of  pleasure, 

Basely  spent  mid  fashion's  lures  ! 

Knowledge  gained  in  such  brave  struggles, 

Wisdom  surely  gives  the  heart ; 
With  these,  Nature's  noble  children, 

Gladly  would  I  take  my  part. 

1857. 


172  OLD  CHARLEY. 


OLD    CHARLEY. 

ON  thy  honest  face,  old  Charley, 
Time  has  set  his  iron  seal ; 
And  thy  stiffened  limbs,  old  Charley, 
Age  and  servitude  reveal. 

Thou  hast  been  a  faithful  servant, 

Ready  ever  at  my  call ; 
Strength  and  courage  for  my  service 

Kindly  hast  thou  given  all. 

Oft  mid  pleasant  scenes,  old  Charley, 
Far  away  from  town  and  noise, 

Hast  thou  borne  me  through  the  by-ways, 
Where  sweet  Nature  doth  rejoice,  — 

Happy  seeming,  as  before  thee 

Leisurely  I  walked  along, 
With  thy  ears  directed  forward, 

And  thy  step  so  true  and  strong. 

Now  though  age  and  weakness  check  thee, 
The  good  will  doth  still  remain, 


OLD    CHARLEY. 

And  as  erst  thou  lov'st  to  take  me 
To  our  favorite  haunts  again. 

In  the  past,  old  honest  Charley, 

In  the  past  so  fairly  seen, 
Filled  with  memory's  sacred  treasures, 

Much,  old  Charley,  thou  hast  been. 

Now  in  pastures  green  I  turn  thee, 
There  to  graze  and  take  thy  ease, 

Or  beneath  the  shady  maples 

Catch  the  fresh  and  cooling  breeze. 

1856. 


173 


174  A   SUNSET   REVERY. 


A    SUNSET    REVERY. 

WAS  Winter,  and  the  close  of  day,. 
Some  ten  long  years,  or  more,  agor 
When  by  the  fire-light's  flickering  ray, 
I  yielded  to  my  musing's  flow. 

From  out  my  western  window  far, 
I  looked  beyond  the  brown  old  wood, 

And  saw  the  beauteous  evening  star, 
So  glorious  in  its  solitude. 

A  something  richer  far  than  thought, 
O'er  my  hushed  spirit  ere  long  came  ; 

A  something  I  had  never  sought,  — 
A  halo  with  a  living  flame. 

And  so  I  took  my  idle  pen, 

The  sunset  hour  my  ready  theme  ; 

I  felt  it  to  be  sacred  then, 

Though  now  perhaps  a  waking  dream. 

When  the  sun  has  sunk  to  rest, 
And  the  gentle  twilight  falls, 


A    SUNSET   HE  VERY.  175 

III  the  chambers  of  the  west, 

In  those  distant  pearly  halls, 

Glimpses  of  a  better  land 

I  imagine  I  can  see, 

Where  resides  that  glorious  band, 

Glorious  for  eternity. 

0  !  how  infinite  the  space 
Unto  my  short  vision  seems, 
Speaking  of  a  resting  place 
For  the  blessed  of  our  race, 
Where  eternal  daylight  beams. 
Calmly,  reverently  I  gaze, 

As  it  were,  on  things  divine, 
For  within  that  pearly  maze 
Angel  forms  and  faces  shine  ; 
And  amid  that  radiant  band, 
Smiling  with  a  heavenly  love, 
Beckoning  with  her  lily  hand, 

1  behold  my  long-lost  dove  ; 
That  sweet  face  again  I  see, 
Earnestly  regarding  me, 
Wreathed  in  beauty  as  of  yore, 
Sweeter  even  than  before  — 
Beaming  immortality ! 
Gracefully  her  golden  hair 


176  A   SUNSET   REVERY. 

Falls  upon  her  shoulders  white 
Seen  in  that  resplendent  light, 
O,  how  exquisitely  fair  ! 
Silent,  anxiously  I  gaze, 
Straining  my  poor  sight  to  see, 
Fearful  lest  some  earthly  haze 
Come  between  my  love  and  me 
But  the  curtain  quickly  falls, 
And  I  find  myself  alone  ; 
Life  with  duty  sternly  calls, — 
Lo !  my  dove  again  has  flown. 


1857. 


THE    SAXON   HEART.  177 


THE    SAXON    HEART. 

THE  Saxon  heart  bears  not  control ; 
Like  a  strong  river  on  its  course, 
The  tide  swells  on  within  the  soul, 
Overpowering  every  adverse  force  :  — 

The  brave,  good  heart,  that  takes  its  stand, 
Resisting  wrong,  defying  shame, 

Born  like  a  prince  to  take  command, 
Regardless  still  of  praise  or  blame,  — 

The  matchless  heart  of  bold  emprise, 

The  conquering  heart,  the  heart  so  strong, 

The  heart  of  heroes,  brave  and  wise, 
The  heart  that  always  rights  the  wrong. 

The  race  that  erst,  in  forest  drear, 

The  deadly  arrow  swiftly  sped, 
Hath  dropt  the  winged  shaft  and  spear, 

And  wields  the  winged  thought  instead. 

The  race  that  "once  went  bravely  forth 
To  beard  the  wild  boar  in  his  den, 

Now  meets  the  tyrant  in  his  wrath, 
And  boldly  claims  the  right  of  men. 


178  THE    SAXON   HEART. 

As  in  those  Saxon  days  of  old 

The  bow-string  echoed  far  and  wide, 

The  words  of  truth  ring  out  like  gold, 
The  same  old  spirit  sanctified. 

The  race  whence  valiant  Luther  sprung, 
The  modern  herald  of  the  cross, 

Whose  words  throughout  the  world  have  rung. 
And  cleared  religion  of  its  dross, 

Spake  out  in  honest  Fox  and  Penn, 
Inspired  a  Wesley's  fervent  heart, 

Moved  Sidney  for  the  rights  of  men, 
And  Vane  to  take  the  freeman's  part,  — 

The  race  that  on  the  battle-field 

Opposed  the  tyranny  of  kings, 
Like  Hampden,  ready  life  to  yield, 

Believing  more  in  men  than  things,  — 

And  in  our  day  still  battles  wrong, 
Believing  still  in  knightly  deed, 

And  finds  in  Phillips'  classic  tongue 
A  voice  the  bondman's  claim  to  plead. 

3  SCO. 


AUTUMN.  179 


AUTUMN. 

NOW  the  golden-rod  and  yarrow 
By  the  wayside  richly  glow, 
While  the  humbler  Summer  flowers 
'Neath  the  sterner  sceptre  bow. 

Where  the  wind-flower  early  blossomed, 

By  the  gentle  violet's  side, 
Indian  pink  and  snowy  orchis 

Paint  the  meadows  in  their  pride. 

Silent  now  the  sweet,  fair  songsters, 
That  so  charmed  the  vernal  prime, 

Or  for  other  lands  departed, 
To  a  more  congenial  clime  : 

Yet  the  blue-bird,  sweet  and  gentle, 
Warbles  round  his  favorite  haunt ; 

First  to  welcome,  last  to  leave  us, 
Soothing  ever  with  his  chant. 

Now  the  insect  choir  is  lending 
Everywhere  its  happy  strains  ; 


180 


AUTUMN. 

Solemn,  sweet,  and  yet  so  dirge-like, 
Quieting  our  heartfelt  pains. 

Louder  now  the  winds  are  blowing, 
Sighing  through  the  forest  pines  ; 

Walnuts  on  the  boughs  depending ; 
Drooping  now  the  clustered  vines. 

From  his  perch  upon  the  tree-top, 
Loud  the  jay  pipes  forth  his  notes  ; 

Crows  are  cawing,  black-caps  whistling,  — 
On  the  air  their  concert  floats. 

On  the  wind,  mid  dry  leaves  blending, 
Now  the  thistle-down  floats  by, 

And  the  clouds,  like  snow-piled  mountains, 
Sail  athwart  the  azure  sk3r. 

Sad  monitions  Autumn  brings  us  : 
Wei.iy  hours  we  all  must  feel ; 

But  kind  Nature,  ever  genial, 

Still  our  wounded  hearts  can  heal. 


WORKING   AT   THE    MILL.  181 


WORKING    AT    THE    MILL. 

WORKING  at  the  mill,  poor  Bessy  ! 
Working  at  the  mill ; 

Though  thy  strength  has  long  been  failing, 
Toiling,  striving  still ! 

Struggling  for  thy  bread,  poor  Bessie, 

Struggling  for  thy  bread  ; 
And  thy  little  helpless  sisters 

By  thy  labor  fed. 

Toiling  at  the  mill,  poor  Bessy, 

Toiling  at  the  mill ; 
While  thy  gentle  heart  is  breaking, 

Working,  toiling  still. 

Hark  !  the  bell  is  ringing,  Bessy  ; 

Kiss  them  quick  and  go  ; 
Leave  them  to  their  lonely  pastime, 

Haste  through  rain  and  snow. 

Wasted  form  and  face,  poor  Bessy, 
Mark  thy  cruel  fate, 


182  WORKING   AT    THE   MILL. 

Slaving  at  the  loom,  poor  Bessy, 
From  the  dawn  till  late. 

Home  and  friends  thou  hadst  once,  Bessy, 

Parents  kind  and  dear, 
In  old  Erin's  far-off  country,  — 

Nothing  then  to  fear. 

Working,  though  thy  limbs  be  failing, 

Working  at  the  mill, 
And  thy  once  fair  form  be  ailing, 

Working,  striving  still. 

But  good  angels  watch  thee,  Bessy ; 

Thou  art  not  alone, 
For  thou  hast  a  home,  provided 

At  the  Father's  throne. 

Soon  thy  God  will  take  thee,  Bessy, 

And  thy  tender  care, 
Where,  instead  of  tattered  garments, 

Shining  robes  ye  '11  wear. 

1857. 


THE    RIVEN    OAK JOHN   BROWN.  183 


THE   EIVEN    OAK  — JOHN   BKOWN 

FIRM  the  oak  upon  the  hill-top, 
Though  its  branches  may  be  torn, 
Standeth  in  its  solemn  glory, 
Standeth  solemn  and  forlorn. 

Though  the  lightning  rend  asunder 

And  prostrate  the  noble  bole, 
Acorns  that  have  fallen  under 

Shall  increase  a  thousand  fold. 

So  old  Brown  of  Osawatomie, 

With  his  sons  in  blood  and  death, 

Like  the  dragon's  teeth  when  planted, 
Serried  armies  shall  bequeath. 

Nov.  22,  1859. 


184  THE   PETITION  —  JOHN  BROWN. 


THE    PETITION  — JOHN    BKOWN, 

TO   H.  A.  W. 

STILL  the  warm  current  flows  along  his  veins,  — 
His  noble  heart  still  beats  to  freedom  true, 
And  finds  a  deep  response  where  virtue  reigns,  — 
His  soul  sublime,  and  calm  as  heaven's  own  blue. 

O  thou  who  hold'st  his  life-blood  in  thy  hands, 
List  to  the  voice  of  God  that  speaks  within ; 

His  life  or  death  depends  on  thy  commands,  — 
0,  nobly  spare  him,  and  escape  the  sin : 

For  surely  as  he  dies,  upon  thy  soul 

His  blood  will  leave  an  everlasting  stain. 

Spare  but  thy  hand  to  do  a  deed  so  foul, 
For  God  to  thee  hath  made  thy  duty  plain. 

O,  spare  the  brave  old  man,  and  thousands  here 

Will  bless  thy  name,  thy  future  days  will  cheer. 

Nov.,  1859. 


DAWN  —  JOHN    BROWN.  185 


—  JOHN    BROWN. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

YOU  'VE  surely  reckoned  now  without  your  host, 
O  Henry  Wise  ; 
A  voice  already  sounds  along  our  coast, 

Borne  from  the  skies, 

That  a  new  saint  hath  entered  heaven's  courts, 
Whose  open  gates  receive  the  welcome  guest, 
And  where  the  sweetest  music  ever  floats, 
No  more  by  tyrants  pierced,  he  finds  his  rest, 

His  duty  all  fulfilled. 

Peace  his  reward  ;  but  ah  !  no  peace  for  thee, 
Proud,  cruel  land,  stained  with  this  infamy, 
Thou  who  his  blood  hast  spilled. 

Sing  praises  for  him,  then,  the  good,  the  brave  — 

Toll  on,  sad  bells  ; 
Your  solemn  music,  over  land  and  wave, 

The  requiem  swells 
Of  one  as  true  as  steel,  whose  noble  heart 

Beat  with  fierce  courage  in  the  bondman's  cause,. 


186  DAWN JOHN   BROWN. 

"Who  with  God's  poor  so  greatly  chose  his  part, 
And  died  the  victim  of  accursed  laws  : 

His  spirit  liveth  still ! 

And  lives  to  haunt  the  tyrants  of  mankind, 
To  wake  new  zeal  in  every  noble  mind, 
And  nerve  heroic  will. 

Benighted  South  !  why  will  ye  not  awake  ? 

It  is  already  dawn  ! 
From  off  your  e^yes  the  scales  of  blindness  shake ; 

No  longer  scorn 

The  honest  counsel  of  your  truest  friends,  — 
Not  they  who  smile  so  basely  on  your  sin, 
Who  have  at  heart  naught  but  their  selfish  ends, 
And  meanly  lick  the  dust,  your  grace  to  win ! 

Not  these  indeed ! 

But  they  who  of  yom*  danger  give  alarm, 
Who  seek  your  good  alone,  and  not  your  harm,  — 

Their  counsel  heed. 

No  longer  plain  John  Brown, 
But  now  enshrined  a  saint, 

Such  as  of  olden  time 
The  masters  loved  to  paint. 

Dec.  18,  1859. 


THE    FATAL    FRIDAY.  187 


THE    FATAL    FRIDAY.* 

AGAIN  our  hearts  are  destined  to  be  torn  ; 
Humanity  again  is  set  at  naught ; 
All  our  appeals  the  tyrant  treats  with  scorn, 
And  we  behold  our  land  with  misery  fraught. 

Men  of  the  North,  the  tocsin  that  of  yore 
Aroused  your  fathers  to  defend  their  rights, 

Sounds  the  same  larum  louder  than  before  — 
To  boldly  meet  our  foemen  in  their  might. 

No  longer  rest  upon  your  hopes  supine  — 
Forbearance  further  will  destruction  prove  ; 

Stand  for  your  rights,  the  oppressors'  bounds  define, 
And  from  our  shores  the  curse  of  slavery  move. 

March  16,  18  GO. 


*  John  Brown,  executed  Friday,  Dec.  2,  1859;  Cook,  Coppick,  Copeland 
and  Green,  Friday,  Dec.  10,  1859;  Stevens  and  Ilazlett,  Friday,  March  16, 
1800;  — martyrs  for  the  slave. 


188  TO   THE    PRESIDENT. 


TO    THE    PEESIDENT. 

UNTO  the  danger  of  the  time  awake  ! 
Take  heed  from  him  who  lost  his  host  of  old? 
Lest  o'er  our  land  some  judgment  too  shall  shake 
Our  nation's  fabric  from  its  tottering  hold. 

Speak  but  the  word  the  Lord  to  thee  hath  given  — 
"Release  my  people  from  their  bondage  sore," 

Ere  shall  go  forth  from  out  the  Throne  of  heaven 
The  appalling  mandate  that  was  heard  of  yore. 

How  long  shall  we  in  anxious  hope  remain? 

Alas  !  our  fear  already  drowns  our  hope  : 
Undo  the  heavy  burdens  and  the  chain, 

And  from  the  weary  slave  remove  the  yoke. 

Spare,  too,  more  blood,  more  sacrifice  of  life : 
Our  land  already  heaves  with  sighs  and  groans  : 

Thy  word  alone  can  end  the  bloody  strife : 

Heed  thou  the  orphan's  and  the  widow's  moans  ! 

June  18,  18G2. 


MARGARET   FULLER    OSSOLI.  189 


MAEGAEET    FULLEE    OSSOLI. 

THY  star,  O  noble  woman,  hath  not  set, 
Though  thou  in  person  art  no  longer  here, 
But  shines  more  brightly  from  the  clear  expanse, 
Our  fainting  hearts  and  lingering  hopes  to  cheer. 

A  cynosure  of  hope  thy  life  hath  proved, 
To  thousands  who  thy  presence  never  saw, 

Thou  noble  champion  of  the  highest  truth, 
Thou  brave  expounder  of  the  heavenly  law. 

In  learning's  maze  thou  trodd'st  serenely  good, 

For  liberty  and  virtue  lent  thy  life, 
Plucked  from  the  hand  of  fate  the  ruthless  wand, 

And  taught  our  race  to  love  where  erst  was  strife. 

Thy  country  owes  thee  much,  but  thy  reward 
In  higher  realms  already  hath  been  found, 

And  generations  yet  unborn  shall  learn 
A  truer  mission  from  thy  noble  ground. 

How  many  now,  just  entering  at  the  porch 

Of  life's  great  temple,  take  thy  outstretched  hand, 


190  MARGARET   FULLER    OSSOLI. 

And  led  by  thee  a  fairer  field  behold,  — 

By  thee  have  learnt  in  firmer  faith  to  stand  ! 

When  death  approached  amid  the  whelming  waves, 
How  calm  and  true  thou  mett'st  thy  ruthless  fate. 

Bowed  to  his  sceptre,  and,  resigning  all, 
Sank  but  to  rise  into  a  brighter  state. 

As  was  thy  life,  so  was  thy  end  portrayed 

By  noble  virtue  and  exalted  truth, 
And  when  most  needed,  thou  as  wont  didst  find 

The  same  great  spirit  that  sustained  thy  youth. 

O,  what  a  loss  to  us  who  still  remain, 

Thou  who  so  well  our  wayward  steps  couldst  guide  ! 
The  wand  thou  dropt'st  now  others  may  assume, 

And  we  but  feebly  in  thy  faith  abide. 

1857. 


THE    LOST   MATE.  191 


THE   LOST    MATE. 

AN   OCTOBER    LAY. 

ATHERING  apples  in  the  orchard, 

On  a  bright  October  day  — 
Sweet  the  blue-bird  warbling  near  me, 
As  when  blossoms  decked  the  May  ; 
Suddenly  broke  peals  of  laughter, 
From  two  happy  hearts,  I  ween, 
One  of  them  my  own  fair  daughter, 
And  the  other  beauty's  queen. 

Bounding,  shouting,  they  came  towards  me, 

Drowning  soon  the  blue-bird's  song, 
But  instead,  a  music  sweeter 

From  their  voices  swept  along, 
Full  of  life  and  full  of  pleasure  ; 

My  worn  heart  rejoiced  to  see 
Youth  and  beauty  in  such  measure, 

Crowned  with  love  and  social  glee. 

One  short  year  alone  has  vanished, 
Since  the  record  of  that  day, 


192  THE    LOST   MATE. 

And  again  the  fruit  has  ripened  — 
Soft  the  blue-bird  chants  his  lay  ; 

In  the  orchard  once  more  gathering 
From  the  trees  their  golden  store , 

But  in  memory's  mingled  treasure 
I  behold  the  barren  ore,  — 

For  no  laughter  ringing  greets  me  — 

Naught  to  glad  my  pensive  heart, 
And  alone  my  child  now  meets  me, 

From  her  loved  mate  torn  apart ; 
That  rich  voice  is  hushed  forever  — 

Closed  for  aye  those  lovely  eyes, 
And  beneath  the  flower-strewn  hillock* 

Her  dear  form  in  silence  lies. 

Hallowed  be' the  dear  old  orchard, 

Each  fair  tree  with  interest  spread, 
For  the  past,  so  sad  and  sacred, 

And  the  brave  young  spirit,  fled. 
Sacred  every  spot  and  record, 

Where  our  lost  loved  ones  have  been,. 
Monitors  to  teach  us  wisdom, 

Ere  shall  fade  earth's  latest  green. 

1857. 


THE    FALLOW   FIELDS.  193 


THE    FALLOW    FIELDS. 

I  LOVE  these  brown  old  fallow  fields, 
Where  so  much  peace  and  beauty  reign  ; 
Their  solitude  more  treasure  yields 
For  me,  than  fields  of  waving  grain. 

These  old  stone  walls,  with  mosses  clad, 

In  broken  ranges  spread  around, 
Frame  their  own  tale,  so  true  and  sad, 

And  well  adorn  such  hallowed  ground. 

The  golden-rod  and  yarrow  white, 
The  velvet  mullein's  yellow  flower, 

Afford  an  ever  welcome  sight, 

And  gladden  Summer's  latest  hour. 

Once  these  old  fields,  now  worthless  deemed, 
And  left  alone,  all  stripped  and  bare, 

With  glistening  maize  in  glory  teemed, 
And  well  repaid  the  farmer's  care. 

That  brave  old  race  that  fought  the  woods, 
Who  fenced,  and  ploughed,  and  tilled  the  soil, 


194  THE    FALLOW   FIELDS. 

Lie  hushed  in  Nature's  solitudes, 

And  Nature  claims  their  fields  of  toil. 

Yon  old  gray  farm-house,  drear  and  lone, 
Whose  blackened  roof  must  ere  long  fall, 

With  childhood's  merry  voices  rang, 
And  rang  with  busy  housewife's  call. 

The  blue-bird  comes  as  he  was  wont, 
And  builds  within  the  hollow  tree  ; 

The  robin  chants  his  vernal  song, 
Though  none  regard  his  minstrelsy. 

Where  once  the  garden,  in  its  pride, 
With  homely  crops  and  flowers  smiled, 

Where  gleesome  children  loved  to  hide, 
Now  spring  the  dock  and  sorrel  wild. 

As  wont  the  brook  glides  on  its  way, 
The  alders  still  its  banks  adorn, 

The  trout  still  snaps  his  winged  prey, 
And  black-birds  hail  the  rising  morn. 

The  seasons  roll  on  as  before, 

Summer  and  Winter,  Spring  and  Fall, 

The  same  blue  skies  as  seen  of  yore, 

The  same  dark,  threatening  thunder  pall. 


THE   FALLOW   FIELDS.  195 

The  full-orbed  moon  looks  blandly  down 
On  these  old  fields,  and  farm-house  gray  ; 

The  same  sweet  smile,  the  same  dark  frown, 
Still  keep  their  old  accustomed  way. 

So  Nature,  ever  fresh  and  strong, 
Though  men  may  fail  and  pass  away, 

Eejoicing  in  her  pastoral  song, 
Maintains  her  calm  supremacy. 

1857. 


196  TO   W.  C.  B, 


TO    W.  C.  B. 

"  O  thou  great  movement  of  the  Universe, 
Or  change,  or  flight  of  time,  for  ye  are  one, 
That  bearest  silently  this  visible  scene 
Into  night's  shadow,  and  the  streaming  rays 
Of  starlight,  whither  art  thou  bearing  me  ? 
I  feel  the  mighty  current  sweeping  on, 
Yet  know  not  whither." 

AN  EVENING  REVERY. 

DEAR  poet !  in  thy  graphic  lines  I  see 
The  strong  man  wrestling  with  life's  iron  doom, 
Striving  in  hope  to  obtain  the  mastery, 
And  from  death's  portals  to  dispel  the  gloom. 

With  no  rebellious  heart  I  too  have  sought 

To  find  a  solace  for  my  anxious  soul, 
And  with  conflicting  doubts  and  fears  have  fought, 

That  peace  might  exercise  her  sweet  control. 

I  sympathize  with  thee,  dear  bard  of  truth ! 

"With  trembling  faith  I  seize  thy  outstretched  hand, 
For  I  have  left  behind  the  days  of  youth, 

And  gather  glimpses  of  the  distant  land. 


TO   W.  C.  B.  19Z 

Though  dim  the  light  that  bounds  my  lessening  way, 
With  rankling  thorns  and  nettles  oft  bestrewn, 

In  the  faint  hope  that  soon  may  break  the  day, 
I  strain  my  eyes  to  keep  it  still  my  own. 

Proud  teachers  of  the  word  ye  name  of  God, 

"Who  so  familiarly  his  plans  explain, 
How  little  know  ye  of  that  dread  abode 

Ye  paint  for  mortals,  made  for  joy  or  pain  ! 

With  humble  mien  the  seeking  heart  explores 
The  haunts  of  nature,  haply  there  to  find. 

Among  the  riches  of  her  genial  stores, 
The  long-sought  treasure  for  the  yearning  mind,  — 

Cons  with  fresh  zeal  the  scrolls  of  wisdom  o'er, 
To  find  the  key  to  life's  mysterious  page,  — 

Bat  leaves  unreaped  the  fields  of  classic  lore, 
Whose  glowing  charms  our  early  years  engage. 

Therefore,  dear  bard  !  and  ye,  companions  dear, 
Whose  waning  years  forewarn  of  no  return, 

Receive  a  brother's  sympathetic  tear, 

A  brother's  hand  unto  that  gleaming  bourne. 

1857. 


198  THE    IMP110VISED    DANCE. 


THE    IMPKOVISED    DANCE 

LIKE  the  Indian  dance  of  old, 
Far  within  the  forest  shade, 
Showing  forth  the  spirit  bold, 

That  no  foeman  e'er  dismayed,  — 

Like  the  dancing  of  the  Hours, 
Tripping  on  with  merry  feet, 

Triumphing  o'er  earthly  powers, 
Yet  with  footsteps  all  must  greet,  — 

Like  the  Fauns  and  Satyrs  *too, 
Nimbly  leaping  in  the  grove, 

Now  unseen,  and  then  in  view, 
As  amid  the  trees  they  move,  — 

Like  the  leaves  by  whirlwind  tossed, 
In  some  forest's  valley  wide, 

Scattered  by  the  Autumn  frost, 
Whirling  madly  side  by  side,  — 

Thus,  and  still  mysterious  more, 
Our  philosopher  did  prance, 

Skipping  on  our  parlor  floor 
In  his  wild  improvised  dance, 

1857. 


WALDEX. 


WALDEN. 

HERE  once  a  poet  most  serenely  lived, 
A  poet  and  philosopher,  forsooth, 
For  in  him  both  have  joined,  and  greatly  thrived, 
And  found  content  before  the  God  of  Truth  ;  — 

A  plain-set  man,  a  man  of  culture  rare, 
Who  left  an  honor  on  old  Harvard's  walls  ; 

An  honest  man,  in  search  of  Nature's  fare  ; 
The  spot  more  rich  where'er  his  shadow  falls. 

Near  by  the  shore  his  cabin  reared  its  head  ; 

With  his  own  hands  he  built  the  simple  dome  ; 
And  here,  alone,  to  thought  and  study  wed, 

He  found  a  genial,  though  a  humble  home. 

From  the  scant  produce  of  a  neighboring  field, 
Tilled  by  his  hands,  he  got  his  honest  bread  ; 

But  Nature  for  him  greater  crops  did  yield, 
In  rich  abundance  daily  for  him  spread. 

The  woods,  the  fields,  the  lake,  and  all  around, 
Both  man  and  beast,  and  bird,  and  insect  small, 


200  WALDEN. 

In  his  keen  mind  a  shrewd  expression  found  — 
For  truth  and  beauty  he  discerned  in  all. 

A  jurist  learned  in  Nature's  court  supreme, 
A  wise  physician,  priest,  and  teacher  too, 

For  whom  each  sphere  reveals  a  ready  theme, 
And  wisdom  is  exhaled,  both  old  and  new. 

While  others  unto  foreign  lands  have  gone, 
And  in  old  footsteps  travelled  far  and  wide, 

This  man  at  home  a  richer  prize  hath  won, 

From  fresher  fields,  unknown  to  wealth  and  pride. 

His  own  good  limbs  have  borne  him  well  about, 

Whose  constant  use  hath  made  him  staunch  and  strong, 

As  many  a  luckless  wight  hath  proven  out ; 
And  Concord  soil  in  him  hath  found  a  tongue. 

Henceforth  her  hills,  her  gently  flowing  stream, 
Her  woods  and  fields,  shall  classic  ground  become, 

And  e'en  the  village  street  with  interest  beam, 
Where  one  so  nobly  true  hath  found  a  home. 

To  Walden  pond  the  ingenuous  youth  shall  hie, 
And  mark  the  spot  where  stood  the  hermitage  ; 


WALDEN.  201 

But  ye  who  seek  mid  glittering  scenes  to  vie, 
Let  other  haunts  your  vanity  engage. 

Go  on,  brave  man  !  in  thy  own  chosen  way  — 
How  many  ills  of  life  thou  dost  escape ! 

Thy  brave  example  others  shall  essay, 

And  from  thy  lessons  happier  lives  may  shape  — 

Shall  learn  from  thee  to  find  a  ready  store 

Of  choicest  treasures  spread  before  their  eyes ; 

For  Nature  ever  keeps  an  open  door, 

And  bids  a  welcome  to  the  good  and  wise. 

1860. 


202  A   WINTER    SONG. 


A    WINTER    SONGr. 

O'ER  fair  New  England's  hills  and  plains, 
Old  Winter  drives  his  rugged  car ; 
No  monarch  more  sublimely  reigns  ; 
No  serfs  than  his  more  loyal  are. 

Throned  on  his  mountains,  Green  and  White, 
He  calls  his  vassals  to  his  hand ; 

The  storm-gods,  wrestling  in  their  might, 
Rush  swiftly  forth  at  his  command : 

Old  Boreas,  leader  of  the  hosts 

Of  rain  and  snow,  from  Newfoundland, 

And  Caurus,  from  the  ice-bound  coasts 
Of  broad  Superior's  farthest  strand :  — 

Raging  and  roaring,  on  they  come  ! 

Each  in  their  ruler's  court  to  vie, 
Contending  till  they  meet  their  doom, 

And  in  fair  Summer's  bosom  die. 

So  love  shall  melt  the  chains  of  ire, 
The  only  Summer  of  the  heart ; 


A   WINTER   SONG.  203 

So  kindness  soothe  contentions  dire, 

And  from  our  wounds  extract  the  smart. 

No  stinted  monarch  is  our  King ! 

His  iron  will  brooks  no  control ; 
His  minstrels  of  his  valor  sing ; 

His  messengers  require  no  goal ; 

Where'er  he  bids  them,  forth  they  go  ; 

The  wild-geese  are  his  heralds  bold ; 
The  mountain  streams  that  rushing  flow, 

By  his  command  their  torrents  hold. 

The  great  white  clouds,  that  restless  poise 

Amid  the  depths  of  upper  air, 
Discharge  their  burdens  at  his  voice, 

And  clothe  the  hills,  and  moorlands  bare. 

The  lakes  where  Summer  loved  to  dwell, 
Where  gentle  breezes  loved  to  blow, 

Roused  from  their  sleep,  in  billows  swell, 
Or  sleep  again  in  ice  and  snow. 

The  forests  roar  as  they  are  wont ; 

The  cataracts  growl  mid  rocks  and  ice ; 


204  A   WINTER   SONG. 

Old  ocean  rears  his  foaming  front, 
And  storms  the  beach  in  thundering  voice. 

Scattered  around  the  rocky  shore, 
Lie  fragments  of  the  stranded  bark, 

While  all  unharmed  the  sea-gulls  soar, 
Or  swoop  into  the  caverns  dark. 

By  frozen  streams  the  red-deer  roves, 
Or  seeks  a  shelter  from  the  storm 

Among  the  pine  and  hemlock  groves, 
That  smiling  shield  his  graceful  form. 

Within  his  mountain  home,  the  bear 
In  some  dark  cave  securely  sleeps, 

While  through  the  thicket  springs  the  hare, 
Or  rabbit  from  his  covert  peeps. 

The  fox  steals  forth  at  close  of  day, 
To  snatch  the  partridge  from  his  perch, 

Or  from  the  farm-yard  seeks  his  prey  : 
No  place  too  sacred  for  his  search. 

Upon  the  sunny,  sloping  hills, 

Are  homes  and  hearts  most  true  and  brave, 


A   WINTER    SONG.  205 

Where  through  old  Winter's  threatening  chills, 
The  glowing  hearth  from  harm  shall  save. 

Who  loves  not  the  New  England  home,  — 
The  modest  farm-house,  low  and  gray, 

Whence  health  and  beauty  sweetly  come, 
To  drive  the  gloom  of  life  away? 

In  rural  scenes  contentment  thrives, 
And  plent}^  crowns  the  rustic  board  ; 

Though  Winter  round  his  dwelling  drives, 
The  farmer  sits,  our  truest  lord. 

Then  rule,  old  monarch  of  our  land ! 

For  we  thy  loyal  subjects  are  : 
We  cheerly  bow  at  thy  command, 

Thy  blessings  and  thy  chidings  share. 
Feb.,  1802. 


206  THE    KING   OF   TARKILN   HILL. 


THE    KING    OF    TARKILN    HILL 

I  CALL  him  «  king  of  Tarkiln  Hill," 
Though  but  a  sturdy  yeoman  he  ; 
For  whoso  well  the  soil  doth  till, 
Possesseth  truest  majesty. 

His  home  is  on  the  breezy  height 

That  overlooks  Acushnet's  vale, 
Illumined  by  the  dawn's  first  light, 

And  cooled  by  Summer's  passing  gale. 

Beneath  his  axe  the  old  woods  fell, 
The  stones  he  piled  in  fences  round, 

And  now  his  barns  with  plenty  swell, 
His  cattle  graze  the  fertile  ground. 

His  woodlands  yield  him  still  a  store 
Of  fuel  for  the  neighboring  town, 

His  pockets  craving  little  more,  — 
Oft  you  will  see  him  going  down. 

No  monarch  seated  on  his  throne, 
Beneath  a  gilded  canopy, 


THE    KING   OF    TABKILX   HILL.  207 

Can  boast  a  grandeur  more  his  own, 
Than  with  his  cart  and  dobbin,  he. 

Advancing  years  now  claim  release 

From  labor's  most  fatiguing  toil, 
And  so  he  often  takes  his  ease, 

While  others  till  his  yielding  soil. 

His  honest  liege-man,  "  Uncle  Sam," 

Is  constant,  daily,  at  his  post,  — 
In  youth  a  lion,  now  a  lamb, 

And  still  by  some  esteemed  a  host. 

Give  "Uncle  Sam"  his  daily  prog, 

And  eke  his  dear  tobacco-weed, 
And  he  will  at  his  labor  jog, 

Break  up  the  ground  and  sow  the  seed. 

Of  girls  and  boys,  a  giant  race, 

Our  king  hath  scattered  through  the  land, 

And  may  he  long  be  spared  to  grace 
Old  Tarkiln  Hill,  and  keep  command. 

I  call  him  "  king  of  Tarkiln  Hill," 
For  who  can  better  claim  the  name 


208  THE    KING    OF   TARKILN    HILL. 

Than  one  whose  ready  hand  and  will 
Have  wrought  the  title  to  his  fame  ? 

So  let  us  sing,  "  Long  live  the  king," 
And  heavenly  treasures  daily  hoard, 

While  time  goes  on  with  noiseless  wing, 
And  peace  and  plenty  crown  his  board. 

1862. 


IX    MEMORIAM.  209 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

TO    II.  D.  T. 

0  HENRY  !  in  thy  new-born  sphere  of  life, 
Thy  present  home,  though  hidden  from  our  view, 
Does  not  thy  spirit  linger  still  around 
Thy  much  loved  Concord?  visit'st  not  thou  still 
Thy  favorite  haunts,  by  river,  hill,  and  dale, 
Through  lonely  woods,  or  over  barren  plains, 
Where  once  the  ploughshare  passed  long  years  ago, 
And  where  with  thee  I  once  so  gladly  roamed, 
Through  Winter's  snow,  or  Summer's  fervent  heat, 
To  "  Baker  farm,"  or  to  the  beetling  Cliff 
That  overlooks  the  gentle  river's  course, 
Or  to  thy  Walden,  "  blue-eyed  Walden  "  called 
By  that  much  gifted  man,  thy  chosen  friend, 
Companion  of  thy  walks  and  rural  life! , 
With  thee  I  've  sat  beside  the  glowing  hearth 
Of  one  so  grand  in  thought,  so  pure  of  aim  ! 
New  England's  keenest,  wisest  scrutineer, 
A  poet,  too,  endowed  with  rarest  gifts, 
And  listened  to  the  converse  thou  and  he, 


210  IN   MEMORIAM. 

So  like,  and  yet  so  unlike,  often  held. 

Intelligent  and  wise,  and  deeply  learned, 

I  found  ye  both  ;  both  scholars,  rich  and  rare  ; 

But  in  the  book  of  Nature  no  peer  hadst  thou, 

Whether  in  words  expressed  of  glowing  thought, 

From  deep  philosophy  revealed  of  old, 

Or  in  the  fields  or  woods,  or  by  the  shore 

Of  the  great  ocean  thou  didst  love  so  well, 

And  where  with  pilgrim  steps  thou  often  went'st. 

No  plant  escaped  thy  ever-searching  eye ; 

No  bird  or  beast,  however  rarely  found, 

But  thou  didst  find.     Unknown  Indian  wares, 

By  thy  divining  wand,  though  centuries  hid, 

Came  forth  to  view,  and  thou  their  history  told'st. 

And  'neath  another  roof  all  browned  with  age, 

And  overhung  by  one  great  sheltering  elm, 

Where  dwells  a  seer  decreed  to  solemn  thought, 

Amid  old  books  and  treasures  rare  to  see, 

And  learned  of  wisdom  and  devout  of  heart, 

A  bishop  worthy  of  the  apostolic  age, 

We  sometimes  met  to  pass  a  thoughtful  hour 

In  sweet  discourse  on  themes  of  lofty  tone. 

I  see  ye,  too,  in  memory's  faithful  glass, 

As  last  I  saw  ye,  brave  and  worthy  pair  ! 

The  white  haired  sage,  with  deep  and  solemn  words 


IN   MEMORIAM.  211 

Sonorously  expressed  ;  thy  quick  reply, 

Thy  eyes  all  glowing  with  supreme  good  sense  ; 

A  genial  pair,  though  of  unequal  age. 

Thou  worthy  man  !  so  noble  and  so  brave  ! 

How  much  I  miss  thee,  friend  and  teacher  too  ! 

Thou  gentle  man  !  thou  purest  of  the  pure, 

And  wisest  of  the  wise,  best  of  the  good  ! 

How  saint-like  and  sublime  thy  walk  on  earth  ! 

Truly,  I  never  shall  behold  thy  like  again. 

But  whensoe'er  old  Concord's  pleasant  realms 

Rise  to  my  mind,  thou  as  her  chief est  son 

Will  haunt  her  as  the  spirit  of  her  groves, 

Her  moorland  fields,  and  river  famed  in  song, 

And  marked  in  history's  page  by  scenes  of  blood  : 

For  here,  as  often  told,  their  yeoman  sires 

Met  the  proud  Briton,  and  defied  his  steps,  — 

Some  falling  bravely  for  their  country's  right. 

And  now  in  coming  time  linked  with  this  tale, 

So  often  told  e'en  yet  to  household  groups 

Of  listening  youngsters  with  wide  staring  eyes, 

Thy  honored  name  shall  be  remembered  too, 

Remembered  by  the  good  and  wise  long  lustrums  hence, 

As  one  who  in  an  age  of  much  dismay, 

Lived  a  serene,  a  pure  and  holy  life. 

1863. 


212  THE    OLD    MILL-DAM. 


THE    OLD    MILL-DAM. 

village  cannot  boast  of  many  charms,  — 
A  simple,  straggling  hamlet,  —  but  the  view 
From  yonder  hill-top,  through  the  river's  course. 
Affords  us  many  fair  and  rural  scenes  ; 
And  at  this  season,  from  the  vernal  flood, 
Our  ancient  mill-dam  magnified  becomes, 
And  in  its  mimic  roar  grandeur  suggests. 
Thus,  while  I  sit  enjoying  the  deep  sound 
That  rises  from  the  stones  beneath,  Fancy 
Her  pleasing  exaggeration  lends  me, 
And  the  rich  waterfalls  and  cataracts 
That  greeted  once  my  youthful  eyes  and  ears 
Are  brought  before  my  mind  in  living  truth. 
Again  I  see  thee,  thou  great  parent  fall, 
Niagara,  as  once  I  saw  thee  years  ago, 
When  swollen  e'en  beyond  thy  usual  power 
By  the  Spring  rains,  thou  then  appeared'st. 
Near  thirty  years  agone  —  alas  !  't  is  true  — 
So  much  of  time  from  me  has  slipt  away. 
How  rose  my  soul  then  at  this  glorious  sight,. 
Enraptured  with  its  rare  sublimity  ! 


THE    OLD    MILL-DAM.  213 

Thy  falls  too,  Trenton,  rushing  down  their  course, 

O'er  rocks  and  ridges  most  superbly  grand 

And  beautiful,  I  also  then  beheld, 

Passing  a  holy  Sabbath  there  alone, 

Wandering  among  the  ever  changing  scenes 

For  miles  along  thy  dark  and  dangerous  banks, 

Mid  evergreens  and  grotto  dripping  rocks. 

And  thy  far-sounding  fall,  swift  Genesee, 

At  this  fair  season  eagerly  I  sought. 

For  in  their  peaceful  grandeur  I  could  feel 

The  sense  of  greatness  in  God's  mighty  works, 

Unaccompanied  with  danger,  since 

For  me  the  mere  terrific  has  no  charm, 

But  deeply  agitates  my  wavering  nerves. 

In  later  times,  with  one  to  me  most  dear, 

The  graceful  Montmorenci  I  beheld, 

And  not  long  after,  Chaudiere's  wild  fall, 

So  picturesque  within  its  woody  glen. 

But  to  return  to  this  our  ancient  dam, 

That  hath  so  led  me  in  the  retrospect, 

I  am  content  to  listen  to  its  roar, 

And  view  the  pleasant  scenes  around. 

Across  the  stream,  a  hill  and  crowning  wood, 

Where  hie  the  partridge  and  the  gentler  quail, 

And  woodchuck  in  the  sheltering  banks. 

J2 


214  THE    OLD    MILL-DAM. 

The  river,  winding  through  the  bordering  woods, 

Flows  gracefully,  and  at  yon  shady  nook, 

O'erhung  with  pines  and  broad  umbrageous  oaks, 

I  love  to  plunge  into  the  gliding  stream, 

When  Summer's  enervating  heat  prevails, 

And  feel  myself  refreshed  and  cheered  again  : 

How  great  the  blessing  they  alone  can  know, 

Who  cleanliness  and  rural  quiet  love,  — 

To  godliness  so  near  allied. 

Upon  the  other  bank,  so  soft  and  still, 

A  quaint  ancestral  farm-house  stands  alone, 

Whose  gambrel  roof  looks  back  to  long  past  days, 

Counting  within  its  walls  four  generations 

Who  have  come  and  gone  —  one  only  left 

Of  all  who  called  the  humble  house  their  home  ; 

Old  fields,  once  graced  by  toiling  hands, 

Now  left  to  Nature ;  old  barn  and  corn-house, 

Leaning  with  decay  and  with  moss  o'ergrown ; 

Here  and  there  a  cow,  or  rustic  laborer, 

Dot  the  scene,  and  form  a  picture  for  my  eye, 

So  calm  and  soothing,  that  I  often  seek 

The  peaceful  spot,  and  seated  there  alone, 

Dwell  on  the  landscape  with  a  sweet  content, 

Nor  ask  for  pictures  to  adorn  my  walls, 

While  Nature  liberally  supplies  me, 


THE    OLD    MILL-DAM.  215 

Ready  at  hand,  such  as  no  art  can  give, 
However  cunning  be  the  artist's  hand,  — 
Works  of  the  great  Master,  glorious  in  the  least, 
And  perfect  in  them  all.     Here,  too,  I  learn 
To  raise  my  soul  in  adoration,  and 
Return  back  to  the  world  with  strengthened  faith. 

1863. 


216  THE    MORROW. 


THE    MORROW. 

THOUGH  the  wind  is  blowing  fiercely, 
And  the  snow  is  falling  fast, 
Hopes  of  Spring-time  cheer  the  memory,  — 
Storm  and  tempest  soon  are  past. 

Then  comes  forth  the  genial  sunshine, 
And  the  earth  will  smile  again  ;  - 

Flowers  are  waiting  in  the  meadows  — 
Grass  for  April's  pleasant  rain. 

So,  when  sorrow  may  surround  us, 
And  the  chilling  wind  may  blow, 

Let  us  look  beyond  the  present, 
Whence  our  blessings  ever  flow,  — 

Unto  Him,  the  great,  good  Giver 

Of  all  clear  or  cloudy  skies  ; 
And  though  present  ills  afflict  us, 

O'er  them  all  our  hopes  shall  rise. 

1863. 


SPUING   IS    COMING.  217 


SPRING    IS    COMING. 

THE  Spring,  dear  friends,  is  close  at  hand, 
I  hear  the  blue-bird  in  the  trees  ; 
I  hear  it  in  the  morning  breeze, 
And  voices  rising  o'er  the  land. 

The  sparrow  from  the  old  rail-fence 
Proclaims  it  in  his  song  so  clear, 
His  song,  to  childhood  ever  dear, 

Awakening  life  to  every  sense. 

The  black-bird,  garrulous  and  free, 
From  out  the  lowland  alders  sings, 
Or  sails  upon  his  red-capt  wings, 

Still  keeping  up  his  "  konkaree." 

The  woodpecker  sends  forth  his  cry, 

A  herald  true  of  milder  days, 
As,  perched  upon  the  maple  high, 

He  lends  his  voice  in  general  praise. 

The  wild-geese  now  are  flying  o'er ; 

From  southern  climes  they  onward  coine 


218  SPRING   IS    COMING.. 

Unerring  to  their  northern  home, 
Seeking  some  favorite  distant  shore. 

All  things  conspire  to  swell  the  strain 
That  God  in  goodness  doth  abound  ; 
It  cometh  from  the  teeming  ground, 

It  singeth  through  the  shooting  grain. 

18GG. 


EMMA.  219 


EMMA. 

THOU  graceful  offering  from  the  god  of  day, 
The  pure,  bright  morning  shining  in  thy  face, 
Through  thy  fair  locks  reflects  the  golden  ray, 
And  in  thy  eye  the  pure  blue  sky  we  trace. 

Dear  shrined  image  of  immortal  life, 

May  peace  and  hope  thy  pathway  ever  bless  ; 

Remote  from  fashion's  vain,  inglorious  strife, 
Mayst  thou  e'er  walk  mid  scenes  of  pleasantness. 

Seek  in  the  haunts  of  Nature's  fair  domain, 
Where  sings  the  wood-thrush,  and  the  violet  blows, 

The  surest  solace  for  each  heartfelt  pain, 

The  sacred  source  from  which  much  wisdom  flows. 

Simplicity  with  truth  is  ever  wed, 

And  they  who  joy  in  these  great  hope  shall  find  ; 
Though  friends  prove  false  and  costlier  stores  be  fled, 

A  rich  resource  for  them  is  left  behind. 

The  schools  of  art  are  oft  beset  with  pride  ; 
Too  much  of  dross  among  their  gold  is  found  : 


220  EMMA. 

But  Nature  spreads  her  lessons  far  and  wide, 
And  with  rare  wisdom  all  her  haunts  abound. 

Therefore,  dear  child,  the  knowledge  thou  wouldst  gain, 
In  books  alone  thou  surely  ne'er  wilt  find : 

Like  sowers  of  the  soil,  these  drop  the  grain ; 
The  harvest  only  springs  within  the  mind. 

Thy  heart  keep  open  to  the  force  of  truth, 
Thy  mind  receptive  of  her  gracious  boon  ; 

She  with  rich  knowledge  shall  adorn  thy  youth, 
And  with  bright  lustre  cheer  life's  latest  noon. 

1858. 


NOONTIME.  221 


NOONTIME. 

FROM    UNDER   THE   SASSAFRAS-TREE. 

THE  quail  is  whistling  on  the  wall 
That  skirts  the  wood  so  fresh  and  green 
His  mate  is  listening  to  his  call, 

Beneath  the  alder's  leafy  screen  ;  — 

The  robin  and  the  tuneful  thrush 

Salute  me  as  I  pass  along, 
And  every  tree  and  every  bush 

Rejoices  in  the  tide  of  song  ;  — 

While  from  my  labor  in  the  field 

I  lay  my  shining  hoe  aside, 
And  as  I  rest  to  musing  yield, 

Or  into  gentle  slumbers  glide. 

The  season  in  its  richest  dress 

Now  greets  the  lover's  ardent  gaze. 

For  Nature  ever  waits  to  bless 

The  hearts  that  seek  her  kindly  ways. 


222  *  NOONTIME. 

How  soft  and  calm  the  heavenly  blue, 
The  huge  white  floating  clouds  between  ! 
Of  hope  and  joy  a  sign,  I  ween, 

Where  scenes  of  bliss  shall  greet  our  view. 

With  gratitude  for  favors  past, 

My  soul  uprises  to  our  God, 
And  by  obedience  hopes  at  last 

To  shun  the  chastening  of  His  rod. 

Why,  mid  such  glories  spread  around, 
Should  we  forget  to  render  praise 

To  Him  whose  goodness  doth  abound, 
Whose  wisdom  ever  marks  his  ways  ? 

O  that  mankind  could  live  in  peace, 
And  brother  seek  his  brother's  weal ! 

Lord  !  grant  that  bloodshed  soon  may  cease 
Our  Nation's  sore  affliction  heal. 

1864. 


CHEER. 


CHEER. 

THE  world  still  holds  together  strong,  my  boys  1 
And  a  good  God  rules  over  all  things  here  ; 
The  seasons  in  their  glory  bring  fresh  joys, 

And  with  unyielding  faith  we  've  naught  to  fear. 

Be  of  good  cheer,  accept  the  present  good, 
Nor  borrow  ill  the  morrow  may  not  know  ; 

Take  freely  of  kind  Nature's  daily  food, 
And  let  your  hearts  in  daily  worship  bow. 

In  virtue  only  can  true  bliss  be  found  ; 

Let  us  then  seek  from  the  eternal  Source 
The  riches  that  so  graciously  abound, 

And  steadily  pursue  a  righteous  course. 

1865. 


-24  THE    LAPSE    OF    TIME. 


THE    LAPSE    OF    TIME. 

IN  youth  our  years  pass  very  slow, 
Our  months  and  weeks  seem  very  Ion  &  ;. 
In  manhood  they  've  an  even  flow, 

And  pleasant  sounds  their  fervid  song. 

But  O  !  when  age  and  weakness  come, 
How  swiftly  then  the  cycles  fly ! 

Happy  indeed  if  we  a  home 
Can  in  the  land  of  bliss  espy ! 

When  in  the  vale  of  years  I  go, 

May  He  who  kindly  hears  my  prayer 

A  balm  supply  for  every  woe, 

And  take  me  to  his  Sovereign  care. 

Upon  His  mighty  arm  alone, 

In  my  prostration  would  I  lie  ; 
A  Saviour's  blood  may  e'en  atone 

For  sins  like  mine,  so  deep  of  dye. 

18G5. 


HAPPY   MEDIOCRITY.  225 


HAPPY    MEDIOCKITY. 

I'VE  no  pretentious  to  keep  up  ; 
I'm  but  a  common  man, 
One  of  the  multitude  who  pass 
Through  life  on  Nature's  plan,  — 

A  simple,  honest  man,  I  trust ; 

Nor  do  I  ask  for  more  ; 
Let  others  seek  for  wealth  and  rank, 

And  heap  up  store  on  store. 

None  do  I  scorn,  I  envy  none, 

But  wishing  well  to  all, 
Would  hope  at  last  to  rest  in  peace, 

When  He  who  rules  shall  call. 

Most  truly  do  I  envy  not 

Those  who  from  pride  of  place 

Must  keep  a  constant  watch  and  ward, 
Lest  they  themselves  disgrace,  — 

Disgrace,  such  as  the  world  accounts, 
And  not  as  God  declares, 


226  HAPPY   MEDIOCRITY. 

In  dress  or  word,  or  look,  perhaps, 
And  countless  petty  cares. 

Of  simple  pleasures,  life  affords 

To  every  one  a  share, 
And  that  which  best  with  peace  accords, 

Is  scattered  everywhere : 

For  God  is  good,  and  by  his  grace 

We  all  may  learn  to  know 
How  little  that  men  most  esteem 

Is  needed  here  below. 

The  rivalr}?"  that  haunts  the  crowd, 

Each  other  to  outvie, 
The  little  great,  the  monej7  proud, 

Bespeak  but  vanity. 

And  so  e'en  in  religious  things, 
Where  pride  should  never  come, 

We  see  Ambition  plumes  her  wings, 
And  Mammon  finds  a  home  : 

For  not  content  with  earthly  spoil, 
The  aspirant  for  fame 


HAPPY   MEDIOCKITY.  227 

Finds  naught  too  sacred  for  his  moil, 
Too  precious  for  his  game. 

And  thus  we  in  the  church  behold 

Vain-glory,  ease,  and  pride  ; 
While  piety,  in  humble  mold, 

Is  rudely  thrust  aside. 

Fear  not,  then,  ye  of  nobler  mind, 

But  leave  them  to  their  will ; 
Enough  if  ye  at  last  may  find 

The  Lord,  your  cup  to  fill. 

1865. 


228  THE    EIGHT   PLACE. 


THE    EIGHT    PLACE. 

KEEP  in  thy  place,  and  be  not  ever  striving 
To  reach  some  point  which  nature  may  deny  ; 
Of  many  joys  thou  art  thyself  depriving, 
That  all  unheeded  in  thy  pathway  lie. 

Spurn  not  to  take  them,  though  the3T  may  seem  humble  ; 

Life's  harvest  is  made  up  of  little  things  ; 
Be  thou  content,  nor  with  thy  fortune  grumble, 

But  ever  thankful  for  the  good  it  brings. 

Thou  hast  a  place  which  thou  canst  fill  with  credit, 

If  thou  but  do  thy  duty  day  by  day  ; 
It  may  not  be,  perhaps,  all  thou  dost  merit, 

But  God  will  every  sacrifice  repay. 

How  many  in  the  walks  of  life  are  striving 

To  make  appearance  unto  others'  eyes, 
Instead  of  keeping  to  an  honest  living, 

And  merit  thus  approval  of  the  wise ! 

To  deck  the  person,  or  with  vain  ambition 
To  seek  for  rank  among  the  rich  and  great, 


THE    RIGHT   PLACE.  229 

But  weakness  show  ;  or  worse,  a  base  fruition  — 
The  product  only  of  a  fallen  state. 

Keep  this  in  mind,  that  goodness  is  far  better 
Than  all  that  human  pride  may  grandeur  deem : 

The  one  gives  grace,  the  other  but  a  fetter ; 
One  proves  true  wealth,  the  other  but  a  dream. 

1866. 


230  A   SEA   PICTURE . 


A    SEA    PICTUKE. 

A  SHIP  came  thundering  down  the  Baltic  sea, 
A  huge  old-fashioned  Swedish  man-of-war ; 
Her  broad  protruding  bows  received  the  brunt 
Of  the  great  seas,  and  threw  the  spray  on  high, 
Foaming  far  o'er  the  bulwarks  strong  and  deep. 
Anon  upon  the  crested  wave  she  rode, 
As  gallantly  as  lighter  crafts  are  wont, 
And  then  far  down,  as  though  she  ne'er  would  rise, 
Into  the  very  bowels  of  the  deep 
She  plunged,  but  slowly  rose  on  high  again ; 
And  so  all  day,  a  dark  portentous  day, 
She  made  short  headway,  beating  to  and  fro. 
At  night  the  lightning  shot  athwart  the  sky, 
And  howling  through  the  rigging  rushed  the  gale  ; 
Sail  after  sail,  and  yard  and  stay  were  stript, 
And  when  the  morning  came  at  last  once  more, 
The  huge  old  vessel  seemed  a  very  wreck,  — 
Men  at  the  pump,  and  jurymast  upraised, 
And  tattered  canvas  spread,  the  old  torn  flag 
Flapping  from  out  its  staff;  and  crippled  thus, 


THE    STRUGGLE.  231 

She  seeks  to  reach  the  nearest  anchorage 
Or  seaport  town  along  the  stormy  coast,  — 
A  scene  of  pity,  yet  so  picturesque 
That  well  the  artist  might  her  form  portray. 

1866. 


THE    STRUGGLE. 

ERE  long,  through  fog  and  mist  and  doubt, 
I  hope  at  last  my  way  to  wrestle  out ; 
And  much  of  that  by  some  thought  very  odd, 
Will  then  be  seen  to  be  ordained  of  God : 
For  not  in  hate,  but  love,  I  too  have  striven, 
And  humbly  sought  to  know  the  will  of  heaven ; 
For  man  and  beast,  by  cruelty  assailed, 
My  voice  and  strength  have  never  basely  quailed, 
But  ever  kept  a  heart  to  keenly  feel 
For  all  beneath  oppression's  iron  heel. 


232  GOD'S  GOODNESS. 


GOD'S    GOODNESS. 

I  THINK,  my  friend,  the  case  is  simply  here, 
To  some  our  God  is  love,  to  others  fear : 
As  in  the  heart  ourselves  we  truly  are, 
Is  God  revealed.     He  is  both  near  and  far. 
To  those  who  love  his  presence  he  is  near ; 
To  those  who  hate  it  he  doth  far  appear. 
That  God  is  love,  no  Christian  can  deny ; 
But 't  is  the  good  alone  can  this  espy. 
If  we  ourselves  are  distant,  hard,  and  cold, 
The  same  will  God  himself  to  us  unfold. 
And  so  it  may  be  with  the  life  to  come,  — 
To  some  a  prison  prove,  to  others  home. 
The  freedom  of  the  will  to  man  is  given, 
And  he  himself  can  make  a  hell  or  heaven. 

1866. 


MY   QUEST.  233 


MY    QUEST. 

OLORD  !  I  've  sought  to  find 
Thy  church  among  mankind, 
Thus  far  in  vain  ! 
I  often  find  instead, 
A  weight  like  that  of  lead, 
That  gives  me  pain. 

But  scattered  all  around, 
Thy  goodness  I  have  found, 

And  thy  disciples,  too, 
Men  who  in  word  and  deed 
Have  found  the  heavenly  seed ; 

Alas  !  howe'er,  too  few. 

Yet  still  thy  church  doth  stand, 
And  will  in  every  land, 

Until  the  earth  and  sea 
Shall  know  thee  and  obey, 
And  through  that  better  way 

Find  strength  and  hope  in  thee. 

18G6. 


234  NEW  YORK. 


NEW    YORK. 

O  COMPLICATION  of  all  evil, 
And  complication  of  all  good  ; 
Where  thousands  worship  but  the  Devil, 
And  thousands  also  worship  God ! 
O  wretchedness  beyond  compare  ! 
O  filth  and  rags,  and  stagnant  air ! 
O  glittering  wealth  and  poverty, 
And  rosy  health  and  misery  ! 
The  palace  and  the  hovel  vie 
To  take  the  palm  of  victory. 
Centre  of  all  that 's  good  and  bad, 
Of  all  that 's  cheerful,  all  that 's  sad  ! 
May  God  in  mercy  spare  the  best, 
And  in  his  wisdom  purge  the  rest. 

1867. 


THE  NEW  YORK  DUSTMAN'S  BELLS.       235 


THE  NEW  YORK  DUSTMAN'S  BELLS. 

OF  all  comical  sounds  in  heaven  or  earth, 
A  combination  of  sadness  and  mirth, 
There  '&  nothing  to  my  imagining  tells 
More  wonderful  tales  than  the  dustman's  bells, 
As  wrangling,  jangling,  to  and  fro, 
Their  notes  are  heard  wherever  you  go. 

Witches  and  goblins  fill  the  air ; 

Oaths  and  curses  mingle  with  prayer ; 

From  gutter  to  eaves,  and  very  house-top, 

Such  queer  looking  people  I  fancy  may  pop,  — 
As  wrangling,  jangling,  to  and  fro, 
Their  notes  are  heard  wherever  you  go. 

The  ghosts  of  old  Dutchmen  long  hidden  appear, 
With  their  "  donder  and  blitzen,"   "  mine  Gott,"  and 

"  mynheer"  ; 

And  mid  the  strange  bluster,  and  jostle,  and  jam, 
Our  "  Gotham"  is  lost  in  "  New  Amsterdam,"  — 
As  wrangling,  jangling,  to  and  fro, 
Their  notes  are  heard  wherever  you  go. 


236     THE  NEW  YORK  DUSTMAN'S  BELLS. 

For  among  these  old  rags  and  fragments  so  packed, 
From  many  a  garret  and  cellar  ransacked, 
Are  bits  of  old  garments  a  century  old, 
That  marvellous  bits  of  old  history  unfold,  — 
As  wrangling,  jangling,  to  and  fro, 
Their  notes  are  heard  wherever  you  go. 

And  not  unmusical,  too,  are  these  bells, 
Reminding  the  ear  of  pastoral  dells, 
Of  scenes  far  away  in  the  country  so  dear, 
"Where  there 's  nothing  from  want  and  wrong  to  fear. 
As  wrangling,  jangling,  to  and  fro, 
Their  notes  are  heard  wherever  you  go. 

Ring  on  !  ring  on  !  ye  quaint  old  bells, 
And  rouse  each  house  with  your  constant  knells  ; 
But  rarely,  I  fancy,  shall  rhymer  like  me 
Find  in  your  rude  notes  such  weird  minstrelsy, 
As  wrangling,  jangling,  to  and  fro, 
Their  notes  are  heard  wherever  you  go. 

1867. 


OLD    ENGLAND.  237 


OLD    ENGLAND. 

HOME  of  my  fathers  long,  long  years  ago, 
I  feel  for  thee  a  strong  and  filial  love, 
And  next  to  my  own  beloved  native  land, 
Prize  thee  above  the  nations  of  the  earth. 
I  know  that  thou  hast  many  blots  upon 
Thy  shield,  and  cruel  art  at  times,  whene'er 
Thy  rule  is  forced  upon  its  victims  ; 
Through  blood  I  know  that  thou  hast  risen  high 
In  glory,  by  the  scale  of  nations  :  still, 
For  the  great  and  good  spirits  thou  hast  borne, 
I  love  thee.     Land  of  Howard,  Wilberforce, 
And  "Nature's  darling,"  the  true  Christian  bard, 
The  gentle  Cowper,  dear  to  every  heart 
Attuned  to  truth  and  virtue's  lovely  haunts  ; 
And  in  these  later  days,  and  our  own  time, 
The  much-loved  home  of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge, 
And  Southey,  unto  whom  I  owe  so  much  ;  — 
For  these,  and  many  more  of  ancient  time, 
As  well  as  modern,  do  I  entertain 

.-  }  ••  .'    "V 

For  thee,  O  sea-girt  isle,  an  affection  ; 

And  in  earlier  years,  through  thy  inspired  bards, 


238  OLD    ENGLAND. 

A  strong  desire,  as  yet  unrealized, 

To  visit  thy  fair  realms,  and  wander  o'er 

Thy  scenes  historic,  see  the  homes  and  haunts 

Of  those  whose  works  have  ever  been  to  me 

Friends  and  companions  in  the  walk  of  life. 

How  dear  indeed  the  spot  that  rendered  birth 

To  ye,  dear  Sons  of  Poetry  divine, 

Scattered  all  o'er  thy  soil,  Britannia, 

And  through  the  Cambrian  and  the  Scotian  hills, 

And  o'er  green  Erin.     Oft  in  thought  I  go 

Through  gray  old  abbeys  and  crumbling  castle  walls, 

Mantled  with  ivy,  beauteous  in  decay, 

And  dwell  on  themes  found  in  historic  page  ;  — 

A  thousand  years  ago,  when  mailed  knights 

Rode  forth  on  errands  to  the  farthest  east, 

Or  met  in  tournament  with  shield  and  lance. 

But  scenes  of  modern  time  delight  me  more, 

And  oft  I  trace  with  reverential  steps 

The  haunts  of  Cowper,  portrayed  in  his  Task  ; 

Visit  his  garden  and  his  Summer-house. 

His  walks  at  Olney  by  the  banks  of  Onse, 

The  woods  of  Weston,  Sir  John  Throckmorton's  grounds, 

The  "  Wilderness,"  the  "  Lime  Walk,"  and  the  "  Chase," 

Where  stands  the  Yard  ley  oak,  renowned  in  verse  ; 

Seen  in  the  distance,  Olney's  tapering  spire, 


OLD    ENGLAND.  239 

And  Emberton's  square  tower  with  chime  of  bells, 
That  so  much  charmed  the  poet's  listening  ear ; 
The  "  Hall,"  where  Cowper  met  his  "  Lady  Frog" 
And  "  Catharina,"  patrons  of  his  muse, 
And  constant  friends  until  the  poet's  death,  — 
These,  and  the  like,  would  tempt  my  wandering  steps 
From  scenes  of  fashion  and  from  prouder  sights. 
The  bard  of  Avon,  too,  would  claim  my  love, 
And  with  delighted  steps  I  stray  along 
The  village  street  to  Chaiiecote's  fair  woods, 
Where  story  says  the  poet  purloined  deer 
When  in  the  heyday  of  his  roystering  youth, 
And  was  arraigned  before  the  angry  Squire ; 
Thence  to  the  church  where  rest  his  honored  bones, 
Yet  undisturbed,  as  was  the  poet's  wish, 
And  curse  pronounced  on  the  offender's  head ;  — 
Forgetting  not  upon  my  pilgrimage 
The  "Leasowes,"  Sheustone's  rural  seat, 
Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  and  banks  of  Ayr, 
Renowned  as  the  ploughman-poet's  home, 
The  land  of  Burns,  endeared  to  every  muse. 
Thus  would  I  wander  through  our  Fatherland, 
Mid  scenes  endeared  to  virtue  and  to  truth, 
The  homes  of  godlike  genius,  that  have  kept 
Their  land  from  sinking  'neath  a  barbarous  sway. 


240  OLD  ENGLAND. 

Far  greater  than  her  warriors,  men  of  blood, 
Her  Marlborough,  or  Wellington,  I  deem 
Her  sons  of  song,  such  as  glorious  Milton, 
The  bard  of  Olney,  and  of  Rydal  Mount, 
And  Tennyson  of  our  own  time,  whose  verse, 
Though  often  shaded  by  a  sombre  muse, 
Still  rises  with  the  great  harmonic  chant, 
From  Chaucer's  key-note  of  old  English  verse 
Down  to  the  present  day  of  choral  song. 

1860. 


IN   MEMORIAL.  241 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

G.  G.  C. 

OBIIT   XXV   JUNII,   MDCCCLXVII. 


He  must  not  rest  upon  his  lowly  bier 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 


THE  fatal  draught  to  its  last  poisonous  dregs, 
Sick  of  the  world  and  tired  of  life,  he  drank, 
Then  laid  him  down  for  his  unwaking  sleep, 
And  to  his  God  resigned  the  life  He  gave. 
Unhappy  man  !  but  ah  !  who  can  thee  blame  ? 
Rather,  who  feels  not  pity  for  thy  fate  — 
Pity  and  kindly  sympathy  and  love 
For  one  himself  so  gentle,  and  so  kind  withal? 
Poor  C*****,  — yet  why  poorer  than  ourselves? 
For  have  we  aught  to  boast,  are  we  so  strong, 
So  self-reliant  in  our  righteousness 
Or  worldly  wisdom,  that  we  can  afford 
To  look  upon  thee  as  of  weaker  clay, 
Or  less  Heaven-favored  than  our  feeble  selves  ? 
Indeed  !  not  so  :  we  are  in  truth  but  poor, 


242  IN   MEMORIAM. 

Dependent,  faltering,  transitory  forms, 

Pensioners  for  daily  bread,  and  every  good. 

Ah  !  who  can  tell  the  suffering,  anguish 

Of  soul  and  body  —  fortune,  health,  all  gone, 

A  burden  to  himself,  and  to  his  friends, 

At  least  in  fancy,  yet  not  less  severe  — 

Of  him  now  sleeping  in  the  arms  of  death, 

No  more  to  wake,  until  the  final  trump 

Shall  call  the  dead  from  out  their  narrow  homes  ? 

How  quiet  is  his  sleep  !  the  busy  mart 

And  all  the  stir  and  din  of  merchandise 

Disturb  him  not  —  no  care  distracts  his  mind, 

Closed  are  the  portals  of  each  earthly  sense, 

His  day  is  o'er,  his  last  sad  debt  is  paid ! 

O  !  sad  indeed,  that  in  our  very  midst, 

Where  Christian  men  and  women  daily  meet, 

And  churches  stand  on  almost  every  street, 

That  a  poor  fellow-mortal  thus  should  fall ! 

Let's  look  at  this  a  moment,  Christian  friends, 

By  the  clear  light  that  gilds  the  sacred  page. 

Are  we  not  here  responsible,  at  least 

In  some  degree,  for  his  dark,  tragic  end  ? 

Has  all  been  done  in  word  or  kindly  deed, 

As  we  have  met  him  in  cur  daily  walks 

And  seen  him  struggling  with  the  adverse  tide 


IN   MEMORIAM.  243 

Of  unkind  fortune,  battling  for  his  life 

Like  some  lone  bark  upon  a  rough  lee  shore, 

Her  anxious  pilot  straining  every  nerve 

To  escape  the  savage  rocks  and  threatening  waves, 

Now  gaining  slightly,  and  then  losing  more, 

Until  a  blast  more  unrelenting  still 

Dispels  all  hope,  and,  dashed  upon  the  coast, 

The  gallant  vessel  is  forever  lost  f , 

So  he,  hard  driven  on  life's  stormy  sea, 

Though  long  and  manfully  he  did  contend, 

And  not  till  every  cord  was  torn  away 

Yielded  his  post  —  amid  the  breakers  fell, 

And  sank  within  their  dark,  ingulfing  depths. 

Not  hopeless,  though  heart-stricken,  weeping  friends  : 

Ah  !  no,  God  in  his  mercy,  and  not  man, 

Decides  our  fate,  and  He  who  while  on  earth 

Sought  the  unfortunate  and  tempest-tost, 

Whose  sojourn  here  was  marked  by  love  divine 

And  deeds  of  mercy  at  his  every  step, 

Ne'er  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  sorrowing  soul ; 

And  that  within  us,  prompting  oft  the  tear 

Of  sympathy,  comes  from  a  sacred  source, 

And  speaks  as  sure  as  words  of  holy  writ, 

That  love  and  mercy  rule  alone  in  Heaven. 

Peace  then  to  thee  !  no  longer  poor  and  lone  ; 


244  IN   MEMORIAM. 

But  by  the  gentle  hand  of  Him  who  died 
That  all  might  live,  raised  from  thy  lowly  bed,. 
And  washed  from  every  taint,  presented  pure 
At  the  All-Father's  ever-sheltering  shrine. 


MEMOKIAM.  245 


IN    MEMOKIAM. 

A.  T.  T. 

OBIIT  XIX  DIE  APRILIS,   MDCCCLXVIII, 
JET.  LI. 

FTIENDERLY,  lovingly,  hopefully,  bury  him, 
JL      So  good  and  so  gentle,  so  manfully  true  : 
Gone  in  his  prime,  and  day  of  best  usefulness  — 

Faded  and  gone  !  from  our  homes  and  our  view. 
Alas  !  what  keen  anguish,  how  bitterly  wretched, 

That  his  life  should  a  burden  and  a  pain  only  prove  ! 
Yet,  doubtless,  good  angels  with  open  arms  welcomed 
him, 

And  the  great  All-Father,  to  his  bosom  of  love : 
For  if  I,  a  poor  mortal,  can  feel  naught  but  kindness 

And  sympathy,  flowing  from  one  common  blood, 
How  much  more  supremely  our  own  blessed  Saviour, 

How  much  deeper  and  kinder  our  own  gracious  God  ! 
Then  with  blessings  upon  his  last  earthly  pillow, 
Let  us  hang,  mid  our  tears,  his  harp  on  the  willow. 


246  THE    OLD    BARN. 


THE    OLD    BAKN. 

NO  hay  upon  its  wide-spread  mows, 
No  horses  in  the  stalls, 
No  broad-horned  oxen,  sheep,  or  cows, 
Within  its  time-worn  walls  : 

The  wind  howls  through  its  shattered  doors, 

Now  swinging  to  and  fro  ; 
And  o'er  its  once  frequented  floors 

No  footsteps  come  or  go. 

O  once,  alas  !  each  vacant  bay, 

And  every  space  around, 
Was  teeming  with  sweet-scented  hay, 

The  harvest  of  the  ground  ; 

And  well-fed  cattle  in  a  row, 

At  mangers  ranged  along, 
Each  fastened  by  an  oaken  bow, 

Stood  at  the  stanchions  strong. 

But  where  so  long  old  Dobbin  stood, 
His  master's  pride  and  care, 


THE    OLD   BARN.  247 

And  from  whose  hand  received  his  food, 
All  now  is  vacant  there. 

Then  these  broad  fields,  from  hill  to  plain, 

"Waved  in  the  Summer  air 
With  choicest  crops  of  grass  or  grain, 

Now  left  so  bleak  and  bare  ; 

The  swallows  chattered  all  da}*-  long, 

As  they  flew  out  and  in, 
While  from  their  nests  on  high,  the  young 

Kept  up  a  constant  din  ; 

The  black-bird  hailed  the  dewy  morn, 

From  out  his  rushy  perch  ; 
The  sparrow  sang  upon  the  thorn, 

The  cat-bird  on  the  birch  ; 

The  robin  from  the  highest  tree 

Sent  forth  his  whistle  clear, 
His  soul  partaking  of  the  glee 

That  wakes  the  vernal  year  ; 

And  childhood's  merry  shout  was  heard, 
The  farm-yard  choir  among, 


248  THE    OLD    B&RN. 

Which,  mingled  with  the  note  of  bird,. 
Enriched  the  tide  of  song  ; 

The  lilies  bloomed  upon  the  pond, 

Amid  the  meadows  gay, 
And  scented  all  the  air  around, 

Throughout  the  Summer  day. 

A  pleasant  sight  it  was  to  see 
The  great  hay-loaded  wain, 

With  youthful  rustics  in  their  glee, 
Come  down  the  rural  lane  ; 

The  oxen's  backs  half  covered  o'er 
With  locks  of  fragrant  clover, 

The  farmer's  precious  Winter  store, 
When  sterner  toils  are  over. 

And  when  the  Autumn  days  had  comer 
And  loudly  piped  the  jay,  — 

The  cheery  days  of  harvest-home,  — 
The  crops  all  stored  away,  — 

A  happy  scene  then,  the  old  barn,  — 
A  joy  to  young  and  old, 


THE    OLD    BARN.  249 

To  strip  the  yellow  shining  corn, 
The  farmer's  ready  gold  ; 

The  merry  jokes  around  would  crack. 

And  merry  peals  of  laughter 
The  old  walls  gratefully  sent  back, 

And  every  beam  and  rafter. 

How  sweet  the  music  of  the  flail, 

Resounding  far  and  clear, 
As  borne  upon  the  passing  gale 

It  reached  the  distant  ear  ! 

The  master  on  his  daily  round 

With  conscious  pride  would  go, 
His  faithful  dog  close  by  him  found, 

Attending  to  and  fro. 

Old  honest  Trip  long  since  has  gone, 

And  moulders  'neath  the  wall ; 
No  more  he  takes  the  welcome  bone, 

Or  hears  his  master's  call. 

The  kindly  master  too  has  died, 
The  matron  in  her  grace  ; 


250  THE    OLD   BARN. 

And  dead,  or  scattered  far  and  wide, 
The  remnant  of  their  race. 

But  peace  and  blessings  on  the  past, 
The  poet  now  would  say  ; 

Our  joy  cannot  forever  last, 
Nor  sorrow  ever  stay. 

1867. 


THE  MOTHER'S  VOICE.  251 


THE    MOTHER'S    VOICE. 

HER  voice  is  like  the  Dorian  flute, 
Heard  stealing  o'er  Arcadian  plains, 
When  e'en  the  zephyr's  sound  is  mute, 
And  twilight  in  sweet  silence  reigns. 

So  soft,  so  low,  it  moves  the  ear, 
And  lulls  the  mind  in  sweet  repose  ; 

It  banishes  all  pain  or  fear, 

And  peace  within  the  bosom  flows. 

The  strongest  power  in  Heaven  is  LoAfe  ; 

On  earth  it  still  remains  the  same ; 
And  harmless  are  the  shafts  of  Jove, 

Before  Jehovah's  living  flame. 

So  in  the  heart  of  each  and  all, 
Where  love  and  gentleness  prevail, 

The  ruder  world  is  held  in  thrall, 
And  no  base  passions  can  assail. 

18G8. 


252  IN   REMEMBRANCE. 


IN    KEMEMBKANCE. 

J.    T. 
DIED   APRIL   27,    1861,  AGED   63   YEARS. 

HERE  is  where  we  used  to  rest, 
Uncle  James  and  I ; 
Our  seat  the  stone  with  mossy  crest, 
Our  roof  the  arching  sky. 

Around  us  spread  the  spacious  woods. 
Afar  from  town  and  noise, 

Within  whose  grateful  solitudes 
We  found  our  quiet  joys. 

Year  after  3rear,  in  rich  content, 
We  traced  their  lonely  aisles, 

Nor  heedless  of  the  blessings  sent 
Through  Nature's  genial  smiles. 

1868. 


REMEMBRANCE.  253 


TO    THE    SAME. 

THE  wood-paths  now  are  growing  up, 
Which  we  so  often  threaded  ; 
Our  favorite  seats,  on  stump  or  stone, 
With  leaves  and  moss  are  bedded. 

Alone  I  wander  through  the  woods, 
Where  once  we  roamed  so  cheerly, 

But  miss  within  their  solitudes 
The  charms  we  loved  so  dearly. 

No  more  the  wild  flower  brings,  as  wont, 
Its  store  of  wealth  and  glory  ; 

Its  beautj^  only  lures  me  now, 
As  some  remembered 


I  fancy  he  is  by  my  side, 

And  strive  to  keep  him  near  me  ; 
I  think  I  hear  his  gentle  voice, 

That  had  such  power  to  cheer  me. 

But  soon  I  find  it  all  in  vain,  — 
That  I  am  only  dreaming, 


254  IN    REMEMBRANCE. 

And  that  which  was  a  present  good 
Is  only  now  a  seeming. 

But  dear  in  memory  shall  he 
Kemain  with  me  forever  ; 

And  though  our  bodies  parted  be. 
Our  spirits  naught  can  sever 

1869. 


THE    WINTER    EVENING.  255 


THE   WINTEE    EVENING. 

OPLAY  again  that  grand  old  tune, 
Resounding  far  through  memory's  halls, 
Refreshing  as  the  breeze  of  June 
Mid  songs  of  birds  and  waterfalls. 

It  takes  me  back  to  other  days, 
When,  void  of  every  earthly  care, 

I  sped  amid  the  giddy  maze, 
In  time  to  that  old  favorite  air. 

How  jocund  passed  the  light-winged  hours, 
Where  youth  and  beauty  led  the  dance ! 

Our  pathway  then  was  strewn  with  flowers  — 
The  happy  season  of  romance. 

O  fairy  form  !  O  gentle  heart ! 

Where  h^ve  your  light  and  beauty  gone  ? 
Do  others  now  like  grace  impart? 

Or  with  the  past  have  all  these  flown  ? 

Ah,  no  !  kind  nature  keeps  her  own, 
And  youth  and  beauty  take  the  place 


.256  THE    WINTER   EVENING. 

Of  those  from  whom  these  gifts  have  gone, 
And  are  renewed  in  every  race  ; 

And  glowing  eyes  and  waving  hair, 
The  kindly  voice  and  lovely  smile, 

Do  still  the  same  attractions  wear, 
And  still  the  heart  from  pain  beguile. 

Rejoice  !  then,  ye  of  hopeful  years,  — 
O  !  sing  and  dance  while  yet  you  may  ; 

Nor  let  your  hearts,  disturbed  by  fears. 
Look  forward  to  a  sadder  day. 

Strike  up  the  old  familiar  air, 

And  let  our  hearts  to-night  rejoice  ; 

A  farewell  let  us  give  to  care, 

And  in  the  song  blend  every  voice. 

Tune  up,  dear  hearts,  each  tuneful  throat ! 

It  is  your  mother's  natal  day  ; 
Her  voice  still  with  your  own  shall  float, 

As  sweet  as  ere  her  hair  was  gray. 

And  though  our  years  are  gathering  fast, 
We  will  to-night  be  young  again, 


THE    WINTER   EVENING.  257 

Again  live  o'er  the  sacred  past, 
And  bid  good-by  to  care  and  pain. 

Blow  !  winter  wind  —  we  dread  you  not  — 
And  spread  your  snow  upon  the  ground, 

While  safe  within  our  rural  cot, 

Among  our  treasures,  we  are  found. 

Our  cattle  all  are  housed  and  fed ; 

The  barn-yard  fowl  have  gone  to  rest ; 
Old  "  Billy  "  has  his  clean  straw  bed, 

And  blanket  strapped  across  his  breast. 

The  sheds  well  filled  with  oak  and  pine, 

Cut  from  the  woods  a  year  ago  ; 
Our  household  comforts  all  combine 

To  keep  aloof  the  frost  and  snow. 

Thanks  to  a  kindly  Father's  hand, 

Thanks  unto  Him  who  rules  above, 
Our  lot  is  cast  in  this  fair  land, 

Mid  scenes  that  we  so  dearly  love. 

While  we  forget  not  in  our  prayer 
Those  who  to-night  are  on  the  sea,. 


258  THE   WINTER    EVENING. 

And  from  our  store  afford  a  share 
To  meet  the  claims  of  poverty,  — 

Remember  still  those  who  so  late 

In  bonds  groaned  on  our  Southern  soil, 

And  by  the  treachery  of  state 

Are  now  oppressed  by  want  and  toil. 

Blow,  Boreas,  from  your  ice-bound  sphere, 
And  ring  your  chords  among  our  trees  ; 

Sound  forth  the  wailings  of  the  year, 
Where  sang  so  late  the  Summer  breeze. 

Come,  Hanger  !  leave  the  glowing  hearth, 
Where  you  so  long  have  dreamed  and  slept ; 

The  cat  and  kittens  join  in  mirth  ; 

T  is  time  your  watch  and  ward  were  kept. 

Old  Ranger  'neath  the  dresser  sneaks, 
With  wagging  tail  and  upturned  eye  — 

In  vain  his  master  sharply  speaks, 
For  all  exclaim.  "  O  !  let  him  lie  !  " 

Yes,  lie  thou  shalt,  now  stiff  and  old ; 
Naught  shall  subject  thee  to  the  storm  : 


THE    WINTER    EVENING.  259 

Thou  once  wast  like  a  lion  bold, 
Of  stately  port  and  graceful  form. 

So  let  the  storm  blow  wildly  out, 

And  howl  and  whistle  at  our  ears  ; 
Our  social  bliss  will  put  to  rput 

And  drive  afar  all  idle  fears. 

Then  heap  the  wood  upon  the  fire  ! 

And  send  a  glow  on  all  around ! 
Let  all  within  to  mirth  conspire ! 

Let  merriment  to-night  abound  ! 

Ye  tranquil  hours,  supremely  blessed, 
Dear  to  my  heart  —  a  present  heaven  — 

When  no  rude  passions  stir  the  breast, 
And  all  is  calm  as  Summer  even ! 

What,  then,  are  riches?  what  is  fame?' 
The  one  takes  wings  and  flies  away ; 

The  other  glitters  in  a  name, 

And  only  lives  its  poor,  brief  day. 

How  sweet  the  boon  of  rural  peace, 

That  soothes  and  heals  the  wounded  heart ! 


260  THE    WINTER   EVENING. 

May  thy  sweet  influence  never  cease  ; 
May  thou  and  I  ne'er  have  to  part. 

Dear  quiet  haunts,  where  nature  smiles, 
And  o'er  her  votary  kindly  flings 

Her  genial  blessings,  and  beguiles 
The  heart  that  listens  as  she  sings,  — 

Her  song  of  truth  and  beauty  tell, 

And  speak  the  great,  good  Giver's  praise  ! 

From  mountain  top  to  shady  dell 
All  things  the  glorious  anthem  raise. 

O  mellowed  clays  !  O  hallowed  shrines  ! 

Where  hearts  in  peace  together  dwell ; 
Around  which  memory  entwines, 

And  bids  the  soul  with  pleasure  swell  I 

Ah  !  what  were  life  without  the  power 
To  call  to  mind  our  happier  days, 

While  waiting  for  that  holier  hour 

When  we  shall  join  the  song  of  praise  ? 

Then  pleasant  pictures  let  us  strive 
Upon  life's  canvas  oft  to  paint, 


THE    WINTER    EVENING.  261 

Where  we  again  the  past  may  live, 

Though  age  may  make  them  worn  and  faint. 

With  hope  triumphant  in  the  heart, 

A  trust  that  all  is  ordered  right, 
They  who  to  others  joy  impart, 

Shall  find  their  waning  years  more  bright. 

In  chorus  shout  the  brave  old  air 

That  hath  awaked  this  happy  vein  ! 
Give  vent  to  joy,  farewell  to  care, 

And  yield  to  love's  supernal  reign. 

18G8. 


I  '_> 


262  A   RURAL    SKETCH. 


A  RURAL    SKETCH. 

ON  yonder  hill  an  ancient  farm-house  stands, 
With  its  old  barn  and  sheds,  and  crib  for  corn ; 
A  broad  o'ershadowing  elm  droops  near  the  roof, 
And  sweeps  the  mossy  shingles  with  its  boughs. 
Green  meadows  and  old  fields  stretch  far  away, 
Bounded  by  towering  woods  of  oak  and  pine,  — 
A  pleasant  picture  'ncath  the  Summer  sky, 
Seen  from  the  lowlands  on  its  southern  marge. 
And  with  the  song  of  bird  and  insect  hum, 
I  hear  the  thumping  of  the  busy  flail, 
A  pleasant  music  in  this  rustic  scene  ; 
And  just  descry  between  the  opening  trees, 
Within  the  old  barn's  broad-spread  open  doors, 
The  lusty  threshers  eager  at  their  toil. 
A  group  of  rustic  children  in  the  shade, 
All  brown  with  berrying  in  the  neigbboring  field, 
Are  making  merry  on  the  short  green  grass. 
Beneath  a  maple's  shade  in  yonder  mead, 
A  group  of  cattle  seek  the  cooling  breeze, 
Some  standing  and  some  lying  down  at  ease  ; 
The  old  horse  just  apart,  resting  one  foot, 


A.   RURAL    SKETCH.  263 

Stands  listless  ;  —  nearer,  a  few  straggling  sheep, 

The  wether's  tinkling  bell  just  faintly  heard, 

Browse  the  short  grass  upon  a  verdant  knoll ; 

While  all  around  the  air  is  calm  and  sweet. 

And  overhead  the  clear  blue  sky  outspread, 

With  fleecy  clouds  careering  to  the  breeze  — 

The  upper  current  felt  not  here  below. 

But  hark  !  how  sweetly  comes  that  pastoral  song, 

Greeting  my  ear  from  yonder  rustic  path, 

Where  I  behold,  returning  to  her  home 

From  the  near  village,  fairer  than  all  else, 

Her  father's  pride,  the  graceful  Margaret, 

Whose  golden  locks  gleam  with  the -flecks  of  light 

Thdt  find  their  way  among  the  shady  boughs, 

And  her  fair  neck  like  ivory  shines  beneath  ! 

How  light  her  step  as  now  she  mounts  the  stile 

Upon  the  turfy  bank  close  at  the  garden-gate  ! 

Too  soon  to  vanish  from  my  raptured  gaze. 

In  vain  shall  fashion,  with  her  gaud}7  show, 

Attempt  to  vie  with  Nature,  ever  true 

To  the  great  laws  that  govern  man  and  beast. 

From  homes  like  this  come  forth  New  England's  sons 

And  daughters,  each  noble  in  their  own  sphere,  • 

And  giving  dignity  and  grace  where'er 

They  mingle,  whether  in  the  town, 


264  A    RURAL    SKETCH. 

The  busy  city,  or  in  rural  scenes  ; 

Hence  come  our  sweetest  poets,  for  the  muse 

Delights  to  favor  those  of  simple  lives, 

Who  grow  up  'neath  broad  skies  in  Nature's  school, 

And  drink  at  wellsprings  of  eternal  truth. 

Thus  have  I  painted,  in  my  homely  way, 

A  scene  such  as  may  oft  be  witnessed 

By  those  whose  eyes  are  open  to  its  charms,  — 

A  blessing  on  them,  wheresoe'er  they  be. 

1868. 


THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD.  265 


THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

A  PLAIN  old-fashioned  country  house 
Was  that  where  I  was  born, 
Built  by  my  granclsire  in  his  prime  — 
A  hundred  years  agone. 

As  stoiy  goes,  the  trees  were  felled 

Upon  the  very  spot, 
From  which  its  sturdy  frame  was  hewed, 

E'en  now  unharmed  by  rot  — 

But  fresh  and  strong  as  on  the  day 
The  huge  oak  beams  were  raised, 

And  hence  another  hundred  years, 
By  poet  may  be  praised. 

The  massive  chimney,  built  of  brick, 
With  heavy  stone  foundation, 

Suggested  heaping  piles  of  wood, 
And  heaping  stock  of  ration  : 

The  deep,  broad  kitchen  fire-place, 
With  oven  in  its  back. 


266  THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD.. 

And  o'er  its  high-raised  mantel-piece, 
The  queer  old  roasting-jack  : 

While  in  the  garret  far  above, 
A  wheel  and  rope  were  found, 

By  which  the  meat  upon  the  spit 
Was  slowly  turned  around. 

The  floor  of  pine,  so  nice  and  clean, 

And  freshly  sanded  o'er, 
The  great  high  settle  ranged  along 

Between  the  fire  and  door, 

Bespoke  of  comfort  and  good  cheer, 
In  those  rare  days  of  old, 

While  far  around,  the  blazing  hearth 
Kept  off  the  winter's  cold. 

How  cracked  the  wood  upon  the  fire, 
In  ample  armfulls  thrown  ! 

And  roaring  up  the  chimney  flue, 
Made  music  of  its  own. 

A  broadened  circle  thus  was  made, 
As  all  sat  round  the  fire,  — 


THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD.  267 

The  serving-maid  and  serving-man, 
Grandame,  and  child,  and  sire. 

The  grandsire  smoked  his  long-stemmed  pipe 

Within  his  corner  snug, 
While  on  the  hearth  the  apples  hummed, 

And  eke  the  cider  mug. 

The  grand ame  on  the  other  side, 

With  knitting-work  in  hand  ; 
The  tallow  candles,  nicely  dipped, 

Upon  the  ancient  stand  — • 

Where  oft  the  open  Bible  lay, 

Or  book  of  early  Friend, 
Whose  honest  pages  lure  me  still, 

And  sweet  instruction  lend  : 

For  of  that  simple,  Christ-like  faith, 

Our  ancient  household  were  ; 
And  "  thee,"  and  "  thou,"  and  "  thus  he  saith," 

Evinced  our  Quaker  sphere. 

And  standing  near,  the  rustic  child, 
With  open  eyes  and  ears, 


268  THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

Enjoyed  the  comfort  of  the  scene, 
Nor  dreamed  of  boding  fears. 

The  mottled  cat,  so  fat  and  sleek, 

Sat  purring  near  the  stand  ; 
The  old  dog  stretched  himself  and  yawned r 

And  licked  the  proffered  hand. 

And  so  the  evening  passed  away, 

The  apples  passed  around, 
The  cider  in  the  earthen  mug, 

And  thus  the  day  was  crowned. 

O  peaceful  days,  my  childhood's  boon  ! 

In  memory  ever  dear  ; 
And  dear  the  plain  and  honest  ways 

That  keep  our  lives  from  fear. 

'Twas  pleasant,  of  a  "First-day"  morn, 

To  see  the  good  old  pair, 
Together  in  the  square-topped  chaise, 

With  Dobbin  plump  and  fair, 

Set  off  for  meeting  far  away. 
Some  six  or  seven  miles  : 


THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD.  269 

For  where  the  conscience  guides  the  heart, 
No  trifling  space  beguiles. 

A  worthier  or  happier  sect 

Than  were  our  ancient  sires, 
Are  found  not  in  the  lists  of  fame 

A  grateful  world  admires. 

And  fondly  still  in  memory's  page 

I  keep  my  childhood's  home, 
Though  many  changes,  sad  and  sore, 

Upon  its  walls  have  come. 

But  in  the  ever  mellowed  past 

All  things  are  as  before, 
And  forms  and  faces  meet  my  gaze 

As  they  were  seen  of  yore. 

Far  back  into  the  storied  past 

I  peer  with  curious  eyes, 
To  earlier  days  than  those  I  knew, 

And  live  'neath  earlier  skies. 

I  still  can  see  the  broad  domain, 
The  spacious  fields  and  woods  ; 


270  THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

And  raid  our  crowded  city  streets 
Form  sylvan  solitudes ; 

Can  see  the  old  house,  stark  and  lone. 

Its  overshading  trees ; 
Can  hear  the  robin's  evening  song, 

And  feel  the  summer  breeze  ; 

Can  hear  the  mowers  whet  their  scythes , 

The  dewy  herds-grass  fall, 
And  from  the  old  rail-fence  beyond, 

The  quail  his  covey  call. 

My  grandsire  with  his  broad-brimmed  hat, 
In  shirt-sleeves  with  his  men, 

Stands  leaning  on  his  rake  or  fork, 
Beside  the  loaded  wain. 

Methinks  't  was  fairer  then  than  now, 

That  life  was  freer  then, 
And  more  of  faith  and  honest  cheer 

Among  the  sons  of  men. 

Our  lineage  boasts  no  wealth  nor  rank  — 
A  simple,  honest  race, 


THE    OLD   HOMESTEAD.  271 

Who  from  old  England's  sea-girt  shores 
Their  Saxon  offspring  trace  ; 

Who  some  two  hundred  years  ago 

Sought  out  this  peaceful  nook, 
And  o'er  the  broad  Atlantic  wave, 

Their  native  land  forsook. 

And  here  they  made  a  pleasant  home, 

And  here,  their  roofs  were  reared, 
And  here,  the  offshoot  of  their  toil, 

Our  city  has  appeared. 

The  axe  rang  through  the  grand  old  woods, 

And  laid  its  monarchs  low  : 
No  qualms  of  conscience  then  held  back 

The  settler's  sturdy  blow  : 

For  where  was  all  one  savage  wraste, 

And  wild  men  still  around, 
The  clearings  then  were  pleasant  spots, 

And  dear  the  naked  ground. 

The  fields  of  grain  soon  rose  to  view  ; 
And  soon  the  orchards  fair, 


THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

And  signs  of  industry  and  thrift, 
Were  scattered  here  and  there. 

Along  the  river's  pleasant  banks, 
How  fair  the  landscape  glowed, 

When  lighted  by  the  morning  sun, 
Its  varied  beauties  showed  ! 

Here  by  the  shore  were  built  the  ships 
Which  brought  our  early  wealth  ; 

While  from  the  dotted  farms  around 
Were  found  the  stores  of  health. 

But  simple  truth  is  still  the  same, 
And  they  who  love  its  ways 

Will  find  its  blessings  still  abound, 
As  in  those  early  days. 

18G8. 


A   PORTRAIT.  273 


A    PORTRAIT. 

SOBERED  by  time,  a  plain  and  thoughtful  man, 
In  russet  garb  of  quaint  and  homely  style, 
Within  the  angle  of  a  moss-clad  wall, 
O'erhung  by  trees,  sits  down  to  rest  alone 
And  meditate,  leaning  upon  his  staff, 
A  rustic  stick  cut  from  the  neighboring  wood. 
A  glow  of  health  still  marks  his  furrowed  face, 
For  he  hath  striven  through  his  gathered  years 
To  keep  the  laws  of  temperance  and  peace, 
And  sought  to  learn  philosophy  divine. 
Around  him  spread  the  fields,  and  o'er  the  wall, 
For  miles  away,  the  old  woods  stretch  along. 
Here  through  the  ancient  paths  he  loves  to  stroll, 
When  blow  the  Autumn  winds,  or  Winter  rude 
With  storms  of  snow  drives  o'er  the  rigid  plains  ; 
But  most  when  gentle  Spring  again  returns, 
And  song  of  birds  awakes  the  newborn  year. 
Endeared  to  him  the  robin's  early  note, 
The  thrush,  the  jay,  and  e'en  the  noisy  crow, 
The  blue-bird's  warble,  and  the  sparrow's  hymn. 
Though  not  unsocial,  yet  his  soul  requires 


274  A    PORTRAIT. 

Long  periods  of  rest  from  much  society, 

And  mid  his  books  alone  he  oft  is  found, 

Retired  within  his  humble,  snug  retreat, 

Where  naught  but  homely  comforts  meet  the  eye, 

And  where  the  poor  and  weary  wayfarer 

May  find  a  seat,  or  those  of  modest  views 

A  welcome.     Here  he  sits  and  writes  or  reads, 

And  sometimes  falls  into  a  revery 

Or  slumber.     The  rostrum  or  busy  mart 

No  charm  presents  to  him.     Others  may  seek 

The  plaudits  of  the  crowd,  but  quietude 

And  meditation  mark  his  peaceful  way. 

So  would  he  pass  through  life,  and  at  its  close 

Trust  to  that  mercy  which  forgiveth  all, 

And  thus  within  kind  Nature's  fostering  arms, 

His  work  all  finished,  close  his  eyes  in  peace. 

18G8. 


THE    OLD    FKIENDS'    MEETING-HOUSE .  275 


THE    OLD    FRIENDS'    MEETING-HOUSE, 

UPON  a  gently  sloping,  grassy  knoll, 
Far  from  the  busy  town,  its  dust  and  noise , 
Amid  its  ancient  trees  of  oak  and  pine, 
Alone  the  gray  old  building  stands,  —  comely 
And  large,  for  in  those  happier  days, 
Ere  yet  sectarianism  had  prevailed^ 
No  other  meeting  through  the  country  wide 
For  miles  around  was  held,  excepting  this, 
Where  the  calm  followers  of  Fox  and  Perm 
Assembled,  and  in  silence,  or  in  words 
Of  simple  truth,  unmarked  by  classic  lore, 
Taught  the  rude  people  ways  of  peace  and  love. 
Nearly  two  hundred  years  ago  the  spot 
Was  chosen,  and  here  the  house  was  builded, 
The  first  for  worship  of  Almighty  God 
Within  our  ancient  township,  then  a  part 
Of  "the  Old  Colony,"  and  Dartmouth  named. 
Here  mid  the  wild  woods,  and  still  wilder  men, 
Came  our  forefathers  from  old  England's  shores, 
A  stalwart  race,  undaunted  by  their  toil 
Or  hardship  on  the  ocean  or  the  land. 


276        THE  OLD  FRIENDS'  MEETING-HOUSE. 

Here  old  Ralph  Russell,  him  of  Monmouthshire, 

Set  up  his  "  iron-forge,"  at  that  sweet  spot 

Since  known  as  "  Russell's  Mills"  —  a  favorite  haunt 

For  lovers  of  the  picturesque  and  bold 

In  Nature's  works,  here  so  supremely  rich, 

Where  ponderous  rocks  and  beetling  cliffs  abound. 

And  here  beside  the  Pascamanset  dwelt 

The  ancestors  of  those  who  bear  the  names 

Since  so  well  known  within  the  neighboring  town  — 

The  busy  mart  of  ships  and  merchandise, — 

Names  spread  in  numerous  progeny  about. 

These  sought  a  quiet  home,  where  they  could  live 

Without  disturbance  from  the  church  or  state. 

A  peaceful  and  industrious  race  were  they, 

Who  in  their  simple  faith  deemed  every  day, 

And  all  times,  as  the  Lord's,  and  no  one  day 

Set  forth  as  better,  holier  than  the  rest. 

And  so  upon  the  "  First  day"  of  the  week, 

When  all  their  meeting  rites  had  been  performed, 

They  spent  a  few  hours  at  its  peaceful  close 

In  agricultural  labor —  hoeing  corn, 

Or  weeding  in  the  garden,  doing  chores,  — 

Or  visiting  a  neighbor  far  awa}^. 

These  acts  the  stern  old  Puritans  pleased  not, 

And  so  an  order  from  their  court  was  sent, 


THE    OLD    FHIENDS'    MEETING-HOUSE.  277 

No  further  to  profane  the  Sabbath-day  ; 

And  furthermore,  to  pay  the  appointed  tax 

Levied  for  the  support  of  their  own  church. 

This  the  Friends  refused,  and  firmly  withheld, 

Till  time  and  better  laws  made  them  exempt. 

Constant  unto  their  faith,  duly  they  came 

On  the  First  day  and  Fourth  day  of  the  week  ; 

E'en  in  the  busy  harvest-time  they  came, 

For  wherein  conscience  bade  them  to  obey, 

None  were  more  faithful.     Here  they  loved  to  meet, 

And  in  the  stillness  of  this  rural  spot, 

Where  songs  of  birds,  and  the  soft  passing  breeze, 

From  the  blue  waters  of  the  neighboring  bay, 

Swept  through  the  boughs,  brought  music  to  their  ears, 

Methinks  far  sweeter  than  the  loud-voiced  choir 

Or  deep-toned  organ.     Here  they  learned  to  live 

In  peace,  and  often  felt,  I  ween, 

The  thanks  of  gratitude  rise  in  the  soul. 

Here  in  those  early  days,  from  o'er  the  sea, 

Those  faithful  servants  of  the  Lord,  heralds 

Of  peace  and  love,  the  travelling  preachers 

Of  this  their  newly  risen  sect,  would  come  :  — 

Good  Thomas  Story,  the  gentle  and  learned, 

And  Samuel  Bownas,  valiant  and  strong  of  soul. 

Liberal  in  faith  and  sound  in  judgment, 


278        THE  OLD  FRIENDS'  MEETING-HOUSE. 

Setting  aright  the  simple  people  here 

In  a  small  matter  which  their  body  vexed,  — 

For  even  then,  as  now,  trifles  of  discipline 

Would  breed  a  discord  with  the  exacting  few  ; 

But  in  the  main  a  most  exemplary  sect 

The  Friends,  and  to  my  heart's  best  pulses  dear 

The  simple  faith  my  fathers  learned  of  old. 

Here  too  that  meek  disciple  of  the  Lord, 

That  holy  man,  an  image  of  the  truth, 

Beloved  Woolman,  came,  and  left  his  impress 

On  the  more  humane  :  for  at  that  dark  day, 

Ere  yet  the  nation,  or  the  church  itself, 

Had  given  freedom  to  the  poor  bondman, 

Through  the  blest  influence  of  this  godly  man, 

And  his  compeer,  the  noble  Benezet, 

Thus  early  did  the  Friends  release  their  slaves, 

And  gave  them  succor  with  their  libert}r. 

Then  too  in  later  daj^s  came  those  of  calmer  mould, 

Among  whom  Scott,  a  man  of  faith  and  power, 

Who  found  an  honored  grave  on  Erin's  shores, 

Whence  he  had  gone  in  service  of  his  Lord. 

And  he,  the  sweetest  spirit  of  them  all, 

Thornton,  my  grandsire's  venerated  name, 

The  Heaven-endowed  preacher  and  poet, 

Teacljer  too  of  young  and  old,  eloquent 


THE    OLD   FKIENDS'   MEETING-HOUSE.  279 

Chanter  of  inspired  truth,  tender  of  heart, 

And  full  of  all  humanity  and  love  ; 

No  bigotry  e'er  found  in  him  a  place, 

But  Christ-like  charity  and  living  faith. 

Time-honored  house,  so  pleasant,  so  retired  — 

Though  many  miles  away  from  my  own  home, 

I  love  to  jog  along  the  country  roads 

With  honest  Dobbin  of  a  First-day  morn, 

By  pleasant  farms,  whose  broad-spread  fields  bespeak 

Of  wholesome  fare,  and  simple,  virtuous  lives, 

And  take  a  seat  within  the  ancient  walls, 

Where  sat  my  ancestors  in  by-gone  days. 

Here  I  can  listen  to  "  the  still,  small  voice," 

That  speaks  unto  the  soul  attuned  to  hear ; 

And,  while  the  birds  are  singing  in  the  trees, 

And  the  wind  sways  the  branches  to  and  fro, 

The  gentle  river  murmuring  on  its  course, 

Disturbing  not,  but  adding  to  the  calm 

And  solemn  stillness  of  the  dear  old  place, 

Find  strength  and  consolation  for  my  soul, 

Thus  reassuring  my  too  wavering  faith. 

Here  let  me  still  resort,  and  with  the  few 

Who  yet  remain,  the  remnant  of  the  band 

So  strong  and  numerous  once,  join  in  worship, 

Or  at  least  refresh  my  lagging  spirit. 


280        THE  OLD  FRIENDS'  MEETING-HOUSE. 

And  here  at  times,  while  musing  on  the  past, 

I  people,  as  of  old,  the  vacant  seats, 

And  fancy  I  can  see  the  company 

That  once  assembled,  filling  every  space,  — 

While  in  the  "  gallery"  some  preacher  strong, 

From  far-off  Britain  or  a  distant  State, 

Is  holding  forth  in  gospel  power  the  truth, 

Such  as  at  Athens  Paul  himself  proclaimed  — 

The  eager,  listeners  drinking  every  word, 

Fresh  from  the  fountain  of  renewing  life. 

O  !  blame  me  not,  ye  of  sterner  cast, 

Who  keep  a  check  on  every  roving  thought, 

That  I  thus  idly  should  employ  the  time 

Intended  for  a  higher,  holier  cause  ; 

For  to  my  soul,  religion,  stripped  and  robbed 

Of  poetry  and  grace,  is  half  destroyed. 

God  gave  us  life  — He  gave  us,  too,  these  gifts, 

Not  to  be  despised,  but  ever  used  aright ; 

And  he  who  crushes  in  his  inmost  soul 

The  gentler  promptings,  does  a  violence 

To  truth  and  beauty,  and  a  bankrupt  proves 

Of  earth's  best  riches.     O,  may  never  here 

The  pride  of  bigotry  and  ignorance 

Approach  !     The  very  trees  themselves,  the  air, 

The  birds,  and,  too,  the  murmuring  river, 


THE    SHANTY.  281 


The  chirp  of  insect,  and  the  floating  clouds 
That  sail  across  the  vast  cerulean  deep, 
All  speak  of  liberty  and  present  love. 
Sacred,  then,  to  peace  and  sweet  religion, 
Such  as  the  Saviour,  were  he  here  on  earth, 
Would  recognize,  let  this  old  house  remain. 

18G8. 


THE    SHANTY. 

IN  this  little  calm  retreat 
How  much  peace  and  joy  I  find 
Solitude  may  thus  be  sweet, 
If  it  does  not  cramp  the  mind, 

But  give  knowledge  to  impart 
Unto  others  favored  less, 

Truths  that  sanctify  the  heart, 
Wisdom  that  our  God  will  bless. 

1868. 


282  OUR   VILLAGE, 


OUR    VILLAGE. 

NESTLED  among  its  fields  and  neighboring  woods, 
Along  the  river's  pleasant  banks  it  stands, 
A  simple  rural  hamlet ;  yet,  forsooth, 
In  bygone  days  a  scene  of  busy  life, 
Through  which  the  stage-coach,  passing  to  and  fro, 
Stopped  at  the  tavern,  took  and  left  the  mail, 
And  travellers  upon  their  dusty  way 
In  Summer,  or  in  Winter's  stormy  time, 
Found  a  retreat  both  for  themselves  and  beasts ; 
But  now  a  kind  of  "  Sleepy  Hollow,"  where 
The  tired  stranger  finds  no  hostelry,  * 

Yet  food  and  lodging  'neath  some  humble  roof, 
Such  as  the  homely  comfort  of  the  place  affords, 
And  better,  doubtless,  than  where  greater  show 
With  vain  pretence  so  oft  deludes  the  guest, 
Exacting  much,  with  little  in  return. 
But  further  to  describe,  let  me  proceed  :  — 
Two  houses  placed  at  either  end  stand  forth, 
Where  faithfully  the  gospel  is  proclaimed : 
The  followers  of  Wesley  and  Calvin 
Here  abide  in  peace.     And  farther  on, 


OUR   VILLAGE.  283 

Upon  the  hill,  a  plain  and  time-worn  house 

Is  seen,  where  meet  as  wont  a  little  band 

Of  those  called  Quakers,  once  numerous  here, 

Before  schisms  unfortunate  sundered  them 

And  scattered  far  and  wide  their  sturcty  ranks. 

Near  by  an  ancient  grave-yard,  with  its  stones 

Dating  far  back  to  the  first  settlement 

Of  this  ancestral  town,  then  Dartmouth  called, 

Rests  on  the  hill-top,  mid  o'ershading  trees. 

Here  too  once  stood  a  comely  edifice, 

Where  a  famed  preacher  taught  his  numerous  flock, 

The  grandsires  of  a  far-spread  progeny. 

But  Nature  still  her  faith  and  beauty  holds, 

And  standing  on  the  river's  upland  banks, 

A  varied  scene  presents  itself  to  view,  — 

Green  fields  and  orchards,  woods  and  groves  around, 

The  village  lying  in  the  vale  below, 

The  graceful  church-spire  shooting  far  above 

The  humbler  houses,  and  before  them  all 

A  striking  feature  of  this  rural  scene, 

The  river  gliding  onward  to  the  sea, 

Homes  of  rural  comfort  seen  here  and  there, 

And  far  away  the  city  with  its  spires, 

Its  dust  and  clamor  lost  upon  the  air. 

Just  at  the  bridge,  and  near  the  river  bank, 


284  OUR   VILLAGE. 

Stands  a  rude  building,  ancient,  dark,  and  low, 

Yet  of  no  small  importance  in  its  time  ; 

And  though  so  rude  and  rough,  and  worn  with  ager 

A  cheerfulness  is  often  found  within, 

When  the  huge  bellows  kindle  up  its  fires, 

And  the  old  forge,  refulgent  in  the  blaze, 

Sends  all  around  a  warm  and  pleasant  light, 

That  makes  old  Winter,  in  his  stormy  reign, 

Yield  half  his  terrors  to  the  genial  heat 

Which  thus  from  honest  industry  obtains. 

See  how  beneath  the  ponderous  iron  sledge, 

Wielded  by  arms  of  herculean  strength, 

The  meteoric  shower  flies  through  the  air  ; 

Anon  replacing  with  his  needful  tons 

*1 


The  cooling  iron,  now  the  brawny  arm  J 

Leans  on  the  brake,  attentive  to  his  task, 

While  rushing  down  the  creaking  bellows  pipe 

Comes  the  enkindling  draft,  making  all  glow. 

There  with  his  swarthy  brow,  dishevelled  hair, 

Broad  chest,  and  broad,  expressive  face, 

Stands  essHvho  from  his  youth  to  manhood's  prime 

Hath  by  this  ancient  craft  his  living  gained,  — 

A  son  of  Vulcan,  but  of  kindly  mien. 

Skillful  at  shoeing  oxen,  oft  I've  seen 

The  patient  victim  slung,  and  strong-armed  John 


OUR    VILLAGE.  285 

Setting  the  shoe  and  driving  in  the  nail, 
The  sweat  careering  down  his  honest  face, 
While  patiently  some  honest  Dobbin  stands 
Waiting  his  turn,  his  master  at  the  door, 
Or  seated  at  the  forge  smoking  his  pipe, 
And  chatting  of  the  times  with  an  old  friend, 
Or  with  the  Squire,  who  on  his  daily  round 
Has  stopped  to  chat  on  politics  or  news  — 
No  theme  too  trite  to  occupy  the  hour, 
And  loud  the  laughter  at  the  ancient  joke, 
Told  for  the  hundredth  time  to  listening  ears. 
So  passes  on  the  peaceful  village  life, 
And  when  good  feelings  and  good  will  prevail, 
More  to  be  envied  than  the  stormy  mart, 
Where  men  with  sharpened  wits  together  come, 
And  by  their  wits  their  fortunes  make  or  lose. 
For  me  the  quiet  of  the  fields  and  woods, 
And  rural  occupations  lure  my  hours, 
Where  studious  of  good  I  hope  to  learn, 
And  learning  to  secure  immortal  bliss. 
In  former  days,  ere  yet  our  river's  course 
Had  been  obstructed  by  the  miller's  dam, 
The  shad,  the  herring,  and  the  salmon  too, 
Were  in  abundance,  and  e'en  now  at  times, 
When  Spring  once  more  gives  life  afresh  to  all 

M2 


286  OUH   VILLAGE. 

Animate  and  inanimate  creation, 

Following  their  instinct  schools  of  herring, 

And  occasionally  a  shad,  appear. 

Then  all  the  village  youths  with  ample  nets 

Stand  at  the  bridge  or  by  the  river's  marge, 

Mostly  at  evening,  eager  for  their  prey : 

A  cheerful  sight,  and  often  I  have  stopped 

Upon  ixry  evening  walk  to  see  their  sport, 

Wondering  if  those  born  of  hardier  nerves 

Feel  not,  when  struggling  for  their  liberty 

The  glittering  victims  in  their  baskets  lie. 

Here  once  in  years  long  passed  away 

The  Britons,  landing  on  our  southern  shore, 

Marched  some  four  thousand,  halting  at  this  spot, 

And  pillaging  and  burning  on  their  way, 

Drove  the  unarmed  villagers  to  the  woods 

And  other  places  of  retreat.     Those  days 

Are  passed,  and  all  of  that  old  race 

Who  tilled  the  soil  or  labored  at  their  trades 

Have  also  passed  away.     Thus  time  goes  on, 

And  generation  after  generation 

Move  o'er  the  scene  of  action  and  are  gone. 

O,  mid  these  peaceful  realms  where  Nature  kind 

Hath  outspread  so  much  wealth  and  beauty 

In  varied  landscape,  hill  and  dale,  and  stream, 


MEMORIES.  287 

And  made  a  healthful  home  for  man  and  beast, 
May  never  war  or  waste  or  bitterness 
With  blighting  steps  pass  o'er,  but  kindly  still 
The  song  of  labor,  roused  in  happy  hearts, 
Rise  at  morning's  and  the  evening's  close. 


MEMORIES. 

HOW  sweetly  over  the  noise  and  the  clamor 
Sounds  the  clear  note  of  the  robin  above, 
Above  in  the  limbs  of  the  old  rotten  plane-tree, 
Notes  fitting  the  lute  of  an  angel  of  love. 

And  fondly  remembered,  the  days  of  my  boyhood 
Come  back  with  the  songs  of  the  sweet  vernal  choir, 

A  freshness  and  richness  no  treasure  surpasses, 
And  that  they  may  last  is  my  soul's  deep  desire. 


288  THE    DESERTED    FARM-HOUSE. 


THE    DESEKTED    FAKM-HOUSE 

A  HUNDRED  years  and  more  the  smoke 
Had  gone  forth  day  by  day 
From  out  that  ancient  chimney's  throat, 
Upon  its  devious  way. 

And  all  throughout  that  lengthened  time 

The  years  have  come  and  gone 
In  sweet  accord  with  Nature's  chime, 

A  music  of  her  own. 

But  now  no  fire  upon  the  hearth 

Sends  round  its  cheerful  glow  ; 
No  sound  of  childhood's  noisy  mirth 

As  erst  is  heard  to  flow. 

The  path  across  the  neighboring  field r 

Once  used  and  well  defined, 
Is  daily  growing  more  obscure, 

And  erelong  none  we'll  find. 

The  snows  drift  at  the  time-worn  stepsr 

And  block  the  fastened  door, 
Or  through  the  rattling  windows  drives- 

Upon  the  vacant  floor. 


THE    DESERTED    FARM-HOUSE.  289 

The  sweep  and  pole  now  listless  hang 

Above  the  mossy  well, 
While  to  its  once  frequented  fount 

The  path  no  footsteps  tell. 

The  garden  too,  the  household  pride, 

Where  earliest  simples  grew, 
Now  lies  neglected  and  forlorn, 

No  longer  fair  to  view. 

Against  the  chimney's  weather  side 

The  snow  and  ice  remain, 
No  warmth  within  its  spacious  walls 

To  melt  them  off  again. 

The  moon  looks  through  the  frostj"  panes, 

And  lights  the  silent  room, 
But  only  makes  more  clearly  seen 

The  solitude  and  gloom. 

Where  once  the  aged  couple  sat 

Beside  the  glowing  fire, 
All  now  is  chill  and  desolate, 

And  gone  the  worthy  sire. 

How  cheerful  here  in  days  gone  by, 
To  memory  ever  dear, 


290  THE    DESERTED   FARM-HOUSE. 

The  household  hum  of  industry, 
When  naught  was  felt  of  fear ! 

The  matron  at  her  daily  task 
Their  frugal  comfort  sought, 

While  at  his  labor  in  the  field 
Or  wood  the  good-man  wrought. 

Throughout  the  pleasant  Summer  days 
The  bee  sung  'mong  the  flowers, 

As  passed  beneath  this  happy  roof 
The  swift,  light-footed  hours. 

And  when  the  stormy  Winter  winds 
Swept  o'er  the  whitened  earth, 

How  cracked  and  glowed  the  burning  logs 
Upon  the  ample  hearth  ! 

But  like  all  other  things  of  life, 
These  scenes  have  passed  away, 

Yet  in  his  goodness  God  remains 
To  bless  us  day  by  clay. 

1868. 


THE    MINISTRY   OF   NATURE.  291 


THE    MINISTRY    OF    NATURE 

ALONE  with  Nature  and  with  God, 
I  sit  down  more  secure 
Than  in  the  temple's  cushioned  seat, 
With  countenance  demure, 

I  need  no  aid  of  human  voice, 

Nor  organ  loudly  sounding, 
While  God  is  chanting  in  the  breeze, 

His  present  grace  abounding. 

I  scorn  not  vocal  prayer  and  praise, 
The  heart's  poor  honest  striving, 

While  many  souls  are  in  this  way 
Their  daily  food  deriving  ; 

But  when  I  heau  through  oak  and  pine 

Their  .sympathies  so  wakeful, 
I  find  a  solace  in  my  heart 
That  bids  me  to  be  grateful. 

Though  Winter  still  is  lingering  here, 
The  day  is  soft  and  vernal, 


292  THE    MINISTRY    OF   NATURE .. 

And  everything  around  bespeaks 
Of  Him,  the  Good  Eternal. 

The  little  chickadee,  that  hops 
From  branch  to  branch  so  chcerly, 

Gives  me  a  lesson  of  content 
That  I  would  value  dearly. 

The  lichens  on  the  old  oak  trees, 
That  smile  so  fresh  and  greenly, 

Teach  wisdom  in  the  humblest  things* 
And  move  the  heart  serenely. 

Then  often  hither  let  me  hie, 
When  sad  or  worn  and  weaiy, 

And  seek  within  these  sacred  haunts 
The  good  so  fair  and  cheery. 

18G9. 


WHITTIER    AND    LOXGFELLOW.  293 


WHITTIER    AND    LONGFELLOW. 

BRAVE  singers  in  our  western  world  are  ye, 
Each  in  his  own  inspired  strains  exceeding  ; 
Who  both  have  sung  of  Nature,  broad  and  free, 
And  both  have  helped  to  heal  our  nation's  bleeding. 

How  glorious,  in  the  early  days  of  youth, 
Those  halcyon  days  with  music  ever  ringing, 

Came  to  your  listening  souls  the  golden  truth, 
With  sacred  interest  through  the  ages  singing. 

The  one  in  Nature's  school  almost  alone 

Found  the  rare  lore  with  beauty  ever  teeming, 

The  other  partly  at  fair  learning's  throne, 

But  most  from  Nature  in  his  young  soul  beaming. 

No  warrior  wreath  may  sit  upon  your  brows,  — 
But  conquerors  still  in  your  own  peaceful  way, 

By  that  sweet  spirit  which  the  soul  endows, 

And  rules  the  world  with  more  than  regal  sway. 

18G9. 


294  A   HUNDRED    YEARS   AGO. 


A    HUNDRED    YEAES    AGO. 

A  HUNDRED  years  ago  !  where  are  they  now 
Who  then  walked  on  the  earth  ?     Not  one  is 

found 

Within  this  wide  domain  wherein  I  dwell. 
Of  all  the  thousands  that  began  their  life, 
How  few  in  the  whole  world  can  now  be  found ! 
But  Nature  is  unchanged,  —  she  keeps  her  own, 
And  only  where  man  interferes,  remains 
As  fresh  and  beautiful  as  at  the  first. 
That  shining  stream,  that  mossy  rock, 
The  song  of  bird,  the  wild  flower  in  its  bloom, 
The  overarching  sky,  the  moon  and  stars, 
And  the  great  orb  of  day,  remain  the  same. 
E'en  yon  old  farm-house  has  outlived  by  far 
Its  ancient  tenant,  and  that  aged  man 
Whom  now  I  see  passing  within  its  door, 
Is  grandson  of  the  first  who  called  it  home. 
So  passes  man,  —  so  shall  we  all  pass  off 
The  stage  of  action  ;  happy  then  if  we 
Enact  our  part  acceptably  to  Him 
Who  ruleth  all  things,  and  sustains  in  love 


A   HUNDRED    TEARS    AGO.  295 

This  habitable  globe  and  myriad  worlds. 
Dear  Nature,  and  dear  Framer  of  it  all, 
My  soul  would  render  thanks  for  blessings  rare, 
And  hope  for  mercy  and  a  peaceful  close, 
Mid  scenes  of  rural  beauty  where  so  long 
A  pilgrim  pensioner  I  have  sojourned. 

1868. 


296  TO    WILLIAM    BARNES. 


TO    WILLIAM    BAKNES, 

AUTHOR  OF  "RURAL  POEMS." 

PERMIT  a  stranger  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave, 
Like  tbee  a  lover  of  calm  rural  life 
And  Nature  in  her  simplest  charms  arrayed, 
One  who  loves  quiet  hours  and  quiet  hearts, 
The  simple  melodies  of  wood  and  field, 
And  wild  flowers  blooming  in  their  snug  retreats, 
To  welcome  thee  as  with  a  brother's  hand, 
And  thank  thee  with  the  fervor  of  a  heart 
Ever  alive  to  kindly  sympathies, 
For  thy  sweet  rural  lays,  songs  of  such  cheer, 
That  to  my  mind  a  richer  influence  lend 
Than  stately  epics  wreathed  in  mystic  lore  ; 
For  I  am  but  a  man,  a  common  man, 
And  with  the  old  Roman  poet-slave, 
"  Nothing  that's  human  foreign  is  to  me  "  ; 
And  thus  the  every-day  affairs  of  life, 
The  homely  joys  and  sorrows  of  mankind, 
The  haunts  of  man,  his  home,  his  resting-place, 
Are  objects  of  my  sympathy  and  love. 


TO    WILLIAM    BAHNES.  297 

The  common  feelings  of  the  human  heart, 

The  smple  ways  so  sweet  of  rustic  life, 

Its  daily  struggles,  mixed  with  light  and  shade, 

The  care  for  God's  inferior  animals, 

To  whom  we  owe  so  much,  the  rural  walk 

Mid  scenes  of  pastoral  life  and  beauty, 

'Cottages  enshrined  in  vines,  bright  flowers 

Beside  the  doorway,  and  within  the  home 

Cleanliness  and  thrift,  though  of  a  humble  sort,  — 

All  these,  dear  bard,. and  many  more  such  like, 

Thou  hast  portrayed  as  with  a  limner's  skill, 

And  brought  thy  Dorset  pictures  to  our  eyes, 

So  that  we  feel  a  dear  congenial  soul 

Beats  in  true  concord  with  our  grateful  hearts. 

A  welcome  then,  though  in  my  humble  verse, 

Would  I  extend  to  thee,  dear  fellow-bard, 

And  God's  best  blessings  on  thy  head  invoke. 

1869. 


298  ASPIRATIONS. 


ASPIRATIONS. 

OIN  the  life  that  is  to  come,  may  I, 
Dear  Father,  all  redeemed  by  thee  from  sin, 
Not  only  meet  those  dear  by  Nature's  ties, 
The  cherished  household  band,  but  also  see 
Those  unto  whom  my  heart  so  fondly  clings, 
Whose  glorious  works  have  wrought  upon  my  soul 
Such  happiness  from  early  youth  to  age.  ' 
And  first,  my  much  loved  Cowper,  teacher  dear 
In  wisdom's  ways  and  Nature's  fair  domains, 
Thou  gentle  spirit  unto  whom  I  owe 
A  debt  of  gratitude  deep  and  sincere, 
For  hours  of  pleasure  and  instruction  wise  ;  — 
How  oft  with  thee  upon  my  rural  walks 
Have  I  in  -sweet  communion  strolled  along 
Through  fields  and  woods,  or  by  some  murmuring  stream  ! 
And  felt  thy  genial  sway,  O  Poesy, 
Pervade  my  mind,  enriching  all  around. 
The  solemn  muse  of  Young,  leading  the  soul 
To  look  beyond  the  things  of  earth  to  Him 
Who  ruleth  all  things  by  his  Sovereign  will ; 
And  tuneful  Gray,  so  mellow  and  so  rich, 


ASPIRATIONS.  209 

Shedding  o'er  Nature  a  transcendent  calm  ; 

Thomson,  whom  early  too  I  learned  to  love, 

And  from  his  Seasons  drew  a  fresh  delight ; 

Then  dear  Beattie,  with  his  minstrel  harp, 

And  moral  lessons  told  in  graceful  verse  ;  — 

And  coming  down  to  still  more  modern  days, 

Our  own  rich  Wordsworth,  simple,  and  yet  deep 

In  that  philosophy  which  bears  aloft 

The  humblest  objects,  and  enjoins  on  man 

The  recognition  of  her  royal  truths  ;  — 

And  over  all  great  Milton,  master  of 

The  lyre,  whether  its  chords  resound  of  life 

Or  death,  or  chant  of  sweet  Arcadian  scenes, 

Perfect  in  all,  and  gracefully  sublime. 

For  such  companionship  my  soul  aspires 

In  that  blessed  land,  where  peace  and  virtue  reign. 

Ask  I  too  much?     O  let  me  then  prepare, 

By  close  observance  of  the  heavenly  law, 

And  drinking  oft  at  Siloam's  holy  fount 

The  cleansing  waters,  and  by  grace  Divine 

Washed  of  all  stain,  to  meet  the  heavenly  host  — 

The  great  and  good  who  once  dwelt  on  the  earth. 

And  may  I  not,  dear  Father,  hope  that  thou 

Wilt  hear  my  prayer  for  this  thy  ben i son, 

That  while  on  earth  my  best  companionship 


300  ASPIRATIONS. 

Hath  been  among  the  good,  so  that  in  heaven 
I  may  renew  and  add  to  my  erewhile 
Friends,  such  as  I  have  ever  found  to  be, 
Whether  among  the  living  or  the  dead, 
Congenial  to  my  soul?     And  thus  shall  Heaven 
Prove  the  great  fulfilment  of  my  best  hopes ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  my  humble  rural  muse, 
By  Thy  permission  graciously  vouchsafed, 
May  join  in  singing  praises  unto  Thee, 
Who  out  of  chaos  wrought  Thy  wondrous  works. 

18G8. 


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